XLVII

Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon

      Her silk had play'd in purple phantasies:

She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than stone,

      And put it in her bosom, where it dries

And freezes utterly unto the bone

      Those dainties made to still an infant's cries;

Then 'gan she work again; nor stay'd her care,

But to throw back at times her veiling hair.