That sluggish Tartar blood would turn to fire
In every vein.
She. How blindly you read her,
Or any woman! Yes, I know, I grant
How small we often seem to our small world
Of trivial cares and narrow precedents—
Lacking that wide horizon stretched for men—
Capricious, spiteful, frightened at a mouse;
But when it comes to suffering mortal pangs,
The weakest of us measures pulse with you.