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, true to bondage, would not break from thence,
Though slackly braided in loose negligence.
These often bathed she in her fluxive eyes,
And often kissed, and often ‚gan to tear;
Cried, ‚O false blood, thou register of lies,
What unapproved witness dost thou bear!
Ink would have seemed more black and damned here!‘
This said, in top of rage the lines she rents,
Big discontent so breaking their contents.