HELENA         O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent

To set against me for your merriment.

If you were civil and knew courtesy,

You would not do me thus much injury.

Can you not hate me, as I know you do,

But you must join in souls to mock me too?

If you were men, as men you are in show,

You would not use a gentle lady so,

To vow and swear and superpraise my parts

When I am sure you hate me with your hearts.     (3.2.145-154)

Oh Helena, so confused and hurt and angry. But she thinks she’s worked out what’s going on: O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent to set against me for your merriment. This is a prank, isn’t it, that you’ve arranged with each other, saying all these things to me? You’ve joined forces to make fun of me, it’s all a joke to you! She tries to take the moral high ground on their conduct: if you were civil and knew courtesy, you would not do me thus much injury. It’s just not very nice, is it? It’s not polite, it’s not courteous, it’s not GENTLEMANLY. Isn’t it enough just to dislike me, hate me, can’t you just leave me alone, rather than mocking me? Can not you hate me, as I know you do—said particularly to Demetrius? his disdain has become so central to her sense of self and her sense of long-term grievance, her grief—but you must join in souls to mock me too? Is this just a boy thing, a lads’ alliance, bit of banter, put the woman in her place? If you were men, as men you are in show, you would not use a gentle lady so—it’s not just not gentlemanly, it’s not manly, SO immature, so SILLY—you look like men, you look like grown-ups, but you’re CLEARLY not: to vow and swear and superpraise my parts when I am sure you hate me with your hearts. All these ridiculous oaths and protestations, all this flattery—of my face, my skin, my body (and deep down I think I’m ugly, I’ve internalised that too; I’m The Plain One)—it has to be a joke, right? And it’s a cruel one.