And he whose pious breath seeks to convert you,
Be strong in whore, allure him, burn him up.
Let your close fire predominate his smoke,
And be no turncoats. Yet may your pains, six months,
Be quite contrary, and thatch your poor thin roofs
With burdens of the dead — some that were hang’d,
No matter. Wear them, betray with them. Whore still…
— Shakespeare, Timon of Athens.