Wer't thou a subject worthy of my Sword,
Or that thy death, this moment, could call home
My banish'd hopes, thou now wer't dead; dead, woman;
But being as thou art, it is sufficient
I scorn thee, and contemn thee.
Viol.
This shews nobly,
I must confess it: I am taken with it,
For had you kneel'd and whin'd and shew'd a base
And low dejected mind, I had despis'd you.