Loud shrieks his name, nor feels the flints that wound
Her bosom’s globes, and stain their snow with gore,
As wild she dashes down, and beats in rage the floor.
Now fail her strength, her spirits; mute she sits,
Silent and sad; then laughs and sings by fits.
A statue now she seems, or one just dead,
Her looks all gloom, her eyes two balls of lead:
Then simply smiles, and chaunts, with idiot glee,
“Ave Maria! Benedicite!”
Till, Nature’s powers revived by rest, again