And evermore my heart is fed with groans;
And folds of mantles tied
Across the breast are rent
To shreds and rags in grief,
[*]Marring the grace of linen vestments fair,
[*]Since we by woes that shut out smiles are smitten.
30
Antistrophe I
[*]Full clear a spectre came
That made each single hair to stand on end,