An unquiet woman is the misery of man, whose demeanour is not to be
described but in extremities. Her voice is the screeching of an owl, her
eye the poison of a cockatrice, her hand the claw of a crocodile, and
her heart a cabinet of horror. She is the grief of nature, the wound of
wit, the trouble of reason, and the abuse of time. Her pride is
unsupportable, her anger unquenchable, her will unsatiable, and her
malice unmatchable. She fears no colours, she cares for no counsel, she
spares no persons, nor respects any time. Her command is _must_, her
reason _will_, her resolution _shall_, and her satisfaction _so_. She
looks at no law and thinks of no lord, admits no command and keeps no
good order. She is a cross but not of Christ, and a word but not of
grace; a creature but not of wisdom, and a servant but not of God. In
sum, she is the seed of trouble, the fruit of travail, the taste of
bitterness, and the digestion of death.