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.