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And honest gaze, but one eye closed

She kept, as if forsooth she dozed;

Then suddenly ’twas lit with ire

If some fair thing she saw, and fire

Would burn therein, for loves she not

Aught good or beauteous, as I wot.

Then standing Envy close beside.

Was fretful Sorrow, heavy-eyed

And dismal. By her deadly hue

’Twas clear her wretched spirit knew

Unending grief, and thus jaundice

Paled all her blood. E’en Avarice

Than she doth look less poor and lean.

For care and misery, well I ween,

And cruel chagrin and distress.

That day nor night know never cess.

She suffers, and through sickly woe

More lean and pale doth daily grow.

None suffereth martyrdom more dire

Than she, and this begetteth ire

Within her heart, as seemed to me,

And much I doubt if aught could be

Or said or done whereby to ease

Her rooted grief, or calm or please

Her cankered soul, or break the round

Of care wherein her life is bound!

Alike her face and garments wore

Marks of the cruel rage that tore

Her woeful heart. Her nails had scratched

Her cheeks, the while her hands had snatched