The cruel trenches of besieging age,
With seams, but most unseemly, 'gan to show
Her place was booking for the seventh stage;
And where her raven tresses used to flow,
Some locks that Time had left her in his rage.
And some mock ringlets, made her forehead shady,
A compound (like our Psalms) of tête and braidy.
XXII.
Then for her shape—alas! how Saturn wrecks,
And bends, and corkscrews all the frame about,