And when an earl tuned every grace to win her,
[600]She slights his vows: nor gales nor gold can pin her!
But since she slights my matches, I will match her:
She shall of peevishness the harvest reap.
Since this Don's matchless fortunes could not catch her:
I shall ere long make her affections cheap.
Her love shall stoop to court a common farm,
A lordship then shall scorn to fold an arm.'
'My lord,' her mother, Lady Arda, said,
'A parent's ire ought not to force assent.