fury

Heav'n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd, / Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman ſcorn'd.

Small lightes are ſoone blown out, huge fires abide, / And with the winde in greater furie fret: / The petty ſtreames that paie a dailie det / To their ſalt ſoveraigne with their freſh fals haſt, / Adde to his flowe, but alter not his taſt.