Adel. Am I not tame?
What are these tears, this wild, dishevel'd hair?
Are these fit signs for such despair as mine?
Women will weep for trifles, bawbles, nothing.
For very frowardness will weep as I do:
A spirit rightly touch'd would pierce the air,
Call down invisible legions to his aid,
Kindle the elements.—But all is calm;
No thunder rolls, no warning voice is heard,
To tell my frantic father, this black deed