Our bosoms are their passive instruments;
Vibrate their strain, or all our notes are discord.
Countess. Oh, why this new unkindness? From thy lips
Never till now fell such ungentle words,
Nor ever less was I prepar'd to meet them.
Count. Never till now was I so urg'd, beset,
Hemm'd round with perils.
Countess. Ay, but not by me.
Count. By thee, and all the world. But yesterday,
With uncontrollable and absolute sway