Prove you, that any man with me conversed
At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight
Maintain'd the change of words with any creature,
Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death.
BEATRICE.
[MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Act III. Scene 1.]
Hero. God of love ! I know, he doth deserve
As much as may be yielded to a man :
But nature never framed a woman's heart
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice :
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprising what they look on ; and her wit
Values itself so highly, that to her
All matter else seems weak : she cannot love,
Nor take no shape nor project of affection,
She is so self endeared.
Urs. Sure, I think so ;
And therefore, certainly, it were not good,
She knew his love, lest she make sport at it.
Hero. Why, you speak truth : I never yet saw man,
How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured,
But she would spell him backward : if fair-faced,
She'd swear, the gentleman should be her sister ;
If black, why nature, drawing of an antic,
Made a foul blot ; if tall, a lance ill-headed ;
