Ar. Knowest me not, Margaret?
Marg. I know the Pope, who is a monster stone
That all the world like some poor maddened sea,
Might beat against and break and break in vain;
I know earth’s misery, its inhuman silence,
Where gaunt and shadowy eyes glare round and watch
The slow, brute process nearer, day by day
Of hunger gnawing at the walls of life;
But thee I know not, thou art far too dread
For my poor knowledge. When I see thy face