Prove your own lofty reprobation of it.
Though gentleness, I know, was born in you,
Surely you have a little scorn in you?
Di. Heaven! to pollute one’s fingers to pick up
The fallen coin of honour from the dirt—
Pure silver though it be, let it rather lie!
To take up any offence, where’t may be said
That temper, vanity—I know not what—
Had led me on!
To have so much as e’en half felt of one