And the dull poole feared of them we feare, The dread and terror of the Gods themselves; The furies arm'd with linkes, with whippes, with snakes, And my owne furies farre more mad then they, My mother and those troopes of slaughtred friends.

Much more she said, only to increase the anger of the man, whose insane pride was roused to fury the moment that he heard his sister was doomed to eat the bread of a dependent.

Hen. Let not fury Transport you so: you know I am your Creature, All love, but to your self, with him, hath left me.