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Prove you, that any man with me conversed At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight Maintain'd the change of words with any creature, Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death. BEATRICE. [MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Act III. Scene i.] Hero. God of love ! I know, he doth deserve As much as may be yielded to a man : But nature never framed a woman's heart Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice : Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, Misprising what they look on ; and her wit Values itself so highly, that to her All matter else seems weak : she cannot love, Nor take no shape nor project of affection, She is so self endeared. Urs. Sure, I think so ; And therefore, certainly, it were not good, She knew his love, lest she make sport at it. Hero. Why, you speak truth : I never yet saw man, How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured, But she would spell him backward : if fair-faced, She'd swear, the gentleman should be her sister ; If black, why nature, drawing of an antic, Made a foul blot ; if tall, a lance ill-headed ;