But grieve she did not, for the canker grief
Soils the complexion, and is beauty’s thief.
Nothing, indeed, so much will discompose
Our public mourning as our private woes;
When tender thoughts a widow’s bosom probe,
She thinks not then how graceful sits the robe;
But our nice widow look’d to every fold,
And every eye its beauty might behold!
It was becoming; she composed her face,
She look’d serenely, and she mourn’d with grace. 340