Her rob to rags and plainly spake
What cruel passion was awake
Within her miserable breast,
Outworn with rage, with grief opprest.
Sad token both of spleen and hate,
That left her thus disconsolate.
Around her head hung ragged shocks
Of hair in wild disordered locks,330
The which her angry hands had torn,
The while she wept her state forlorn,
Till every eye that saw her grew
Bedewed with tears of pitying rue,
For ceased she not to beat her breast
As though with madness dire possessed.
Her body and soul both seemed to be
Encompassed round with misery;
No pastime sought she, and the bliss
Her mouth ne’er knew of amorous kiss.340
The wight whose being is in woe
Immersed hath little will to go
Where merry folk dance, laugh, and sing,
But closely hugs her sorrowing;
For Joy and Sorrow know not how
To dwell in fellowship, I trow.
Eld.
The woes of Age
To Sorrow next was pictured Eld:
Time’s hand all care for food had quelled
Within her, and a foot was she
Less than in youth she woned to be,350
Bowed down by toil and drearihead.
Her beauty, years long past, had fled.
