INTRODUCTION.
Scene—A Library.
ALDA.
You will not listen to me?
MEDON.
I do, with all the deference which befits a gentleman when a lady holds forth on the virtues of her own sex.
He is a parricide of his mother's name,
And with an impious hand murders her fame,
That wrongs the praise of women; that dares write
Libels on saints, or with foul ink requite
The milk they lent us.
Yours was the nobler birth,
For you from man were made—man but of earth—
The son of dust!
ALDA.
MEDON.