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,