Page:Romance of the Rose (Ellis), volume 1.pdf/46

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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,

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.

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.

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,

Bowed down by toil and drearihead.

Her beauty, years long past, had fled.