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.
CXXXVII.
A storm it raged, and like the storm it passed,
Passed without words—in fact she could not speak;