From off a hill whose concave womb reworded A plaintful story froma sist'ring vale, My spirits t'attend this double voice accorded, And down Ilaid to list the sad-tuned tale, Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,Tearing of papers, breaking rings atwain, Storming her world withsorrow's wind and rain.

　　Upon her head a platted hive of straw, Which fortified her visagefrom the sun, Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw Thecarcase of a beauty spent and done. Time had not scythed all that youthbegun, Nor youth all quit, but spite of heaven's fell rage Some beautypeeped through lattice of seared age.

　　Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne, Which on it had conceitedcharacters, Laund'ring the silken figures in the brine That seasoned woehad pelleted in tears, And often reading what contents it bears; As oftenshrieking undistinguished woe, In clamours of all size, both high and low.

　　Sometimes her levelled eyes their carriage ride, As they did batt'ry tothe spheres intend; Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied To th' orbedearth; so............