Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne, Which on it had conceited characters, Laund'ring the silken figures in the brine That season'd woe had pelleted in tears, And often reading what contents it bears; As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe, In clamours of all size, both high and low.
Sometimes her levell'd eyes their carriage ride; As they did battery 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 fix'd, The mind and sight distractedly commix'd.
Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat, Proclaim'd in her a careless hand of pride; For some, untuck'd, descended her sheav'd hat,