Her honour is an essence that’s not seen; They have it very oft that have it not: But, for the handkerchief⁠—

By heaven, I would most gladly have forgot it. Thou said’st, it comes o’er my memory, As doth the raven o’er the infected house, Boding to all⁠—he had my handkerchief.

What, If I had said I had seen him do you wrong? Or heard him say⁠—as knaves be such abroad, Who having, by their own importunate suit, Or voluntary dotage of some mistress, Convinced or supplied them, cannot choose But they must blab⁠—

He hath, my lord; but be you well assured, No more than he’ll unswear.