My chastening is far more than I can bear.
Her. These are no times for weakness. On our hills
The ancient cedars, in their gather’d might,
Are battling with the tempest, and the flower
Which cannot meet its driving blast must die.
But thou hast drawn thy nurture from a stem
Unwont to bend or break. Lift thy proud head,
Daughter of Spain!—what wouldst thou with thy lord?
Elm. Look not upon me thus! I have no power
To tell thee. Take thy keen disdainful eye