Cæsar. Daughter! daughter!
Oliv. Because I threw my work-bag at her, she had the insolence to complain; and, on my repeating it, said she would not bear it.—Servants choose what they shall bear!
Min. When you are married, ma'am, I hope your husband will bear your humour less patiently than I have done.
Oliv. My husband!—dost think my husband shall contradict my will? Oh, I long to set a pattern to those milky wives, whose mean compliances degrade the sex.
Gar. Opportune! [Aside.]
Oliv. The only husband on record who knew how to treat a wife was Socrates; and though his lady was a Grecian, I have some reason to believe her descendants matched into our family; and never shall my tame submission disgrace my ancestry.
Gar. Heavens! why have you never curbed this intemperate spirit, Don Cæsar? [r. of Olivia.]
Oliv. [Starting.] Curbed, sir! talk thus to your groom—curbs and bridles for a woman's tongue!
Gar. Not for yours, lady, truly! 'tis too late. But had the torrent, not so overbearing, been taken at its spring, it might have been stemmed, and turned in gentle streamlets at the master's pleasure.
Oliv. A mistake, friend!—my spirit, at its spring, was too powerful for any master.