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From off a hill whose concave womb re-worded

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 a-twain,

Storming her world with sorrow’s wind and rain.

Upon her head a plaited hive of straw

Which fortified her visage from the sun,

Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw

The carcass of a beauty spent and done.

Time had not scythèd 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’orbèd earth; sometimes they do extend

Their view right on; anon their gazes lend

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