O 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.