Make to my lord, who fills my father's place,
What reparation thy ungoverned rage
And hasty tongue demand.
Asan.
Thou cold Greek woman!
Of this, then, 'twas they warned me—a smooth tongue
And a cold heart; a brain by logic ruled,
And not at all by love. Thou hast no pity,
For pity shapes not into syllogisms;
Nor can affection ape philosophy,