Sa.’Tis the third day.
Za.Nor will she sleep.
She fights ’gainst sleep, as if ’twere death. Like one
That must keep watch against its soft approaches,
Sitting upon her couch with head inclined
She mourneth to herself, and ’twixt her sighs
What words may be distinguished overlook
Her own distress, and squander their laments
Upon an unknown sorrow, which she says
Enwraps the world. Or sometimes she will sing