Busily plying of the web we found her,
Decently clad in mourning,—I suppose,
For the deceas’d old woman.—She had on
No gold or trinkets, but was plain and neat,
And dress’d like those who dress but for themselves.
No female varnish to set off her beauty:
Her hair dishevel’d, long, and flowing loose
About her shoulders.—Peace! (To Clinia.)
Clin. Nay, prithee, Syrus,
Do not transport me thus without a cause.