CXXXVI.

A vulgar tempest 't were to a typhoon To match a common fury with her rage, And yet she did not want to reach the moon,[309] Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page;[fr] Her anger pitched into a lower tune, Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age-- Her wish was but to "kill, kill, kill," like Lear's,[310] And then her thirst of blood was quenched in tears.