Burning with anger, anger feeds desire,
Tongued like the night-crow, whose ill boding cries
Give out for nothing but new injuries,
Her breath like to the juice in Tenarus
20That blasts the springs, though ne'r so prosperous,
Her hands, I know not how, us'd more to spill
The food of others, then her selfe to fill.
But oh her minde, that Orcus, which includes
Legions of mischiefs, countlesse multitudes
25Of formlesse curses, projects unmade up,