A vulgar tempest ’twere to a typhoon
To match a common fury with her rage,
And yet she did not want to reach the moon,
Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page;
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,
And then her thirst of blood was quenched in tears.