Heav'n hath no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd, Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd. - William Congreve

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Hell hath no fury like a women scorned

I warrant you, if he danced till doomsday, he thought I was to pay the piper.

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
I've read, that things inanimate have mov'd,
And, as with living Souls, have been inform'd,
By Magick Numbers and persuasive Sound.
What then am I? Am I more senseless grown
Than Trees, or Flint? O force of constant Woe!
'Tis not in Harmony to calm my Griefs.
Anselmo sleeps, and is at Peace; last Night
The silent Tomb receiv'd the good Old King;
He and his Sorrows now are safely lodg'd
Within its cold, but hospitable Bosom.
Why am not I at Peace?

Now will I, in my old way, discover the whole and real truth of the matter to him, that he may not suspect one word on’t.