From off a hill whose concave womb reworded A plaintful story from
a sist\'ring vale, My spirits t\'attend this double voice accorded, And down I
laid to list the sad-tuned tale, Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings atwain, Storming her world with
sorrow\'s wind and rain.
Upon her head a platted hive of straw, Which fortified her visage
from the sun, Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw The
carcase of a beauty spent and done. Time had not scythed all that youth
begun, Nor youth all quit, but spite of heaven\'s fell rage Some beauty
peeped through lattice of seared age.
Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne, Which on it had conceited
characters, Laund\'ring the silken figures in the brine That seasoned woe
had pelleted in tears, And often reading what contents it bears; As often
shrieking undistinguished woe, In clamours of all size, both high and low.
Sometimes her levelled eyes their carriage ride, As they did batt\'ry to
the spheres intend; Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied To th\' orbed
earth; sometimes they do extend Their view right on; anon their gazes lend
To every place at once, and nowhere fixed, The mind and sight
distractedly commixed.
Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat, Proclaimed in her a
careless hand of pride; For some, untucked, descended her sheaved hat,
Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside; Some in her threaden fillet still
did bide, And, true to bondage, would not break from thence, Though
slackly braided in loose negligence.