Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;
As till that time I shall not pity thee.
[035] Ros. And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,
[036] That you insult, exult, and all at once,
[037] Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty,—
As, by my faith, I see no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed,—
040 Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?
Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?
I see no more in you than in the ordinary