For wounds which time has balm'd; but mine are fresh,
All bleeding fresh, and pain beyond my patience.
Ungrateful! cruel! how have I deserv'd it?
Thou tough, tough heart, break for my ease at once!
Aust. I scarce, methinks, can weigh him with himself;
Vexations strange, have fallen on him of late!
And his distemper'd fancy drives him on
To rash designs, where disappointment mads him.
Countess. Ah no! his wit is settled, and most subtle;
Pride and wild blood are his distemper, father.