Turned on her face, her body on the bed,

  Armed as she is, th4e grieving damsel throws,

  And that the sad lament by sorrow bred,

  May be unheard of any, bites the clothes;

  And so, repeating what the stranger said,

  To such a pitcher her smothered anguish grows,

  Her plaints no longer able to restrain,

  So vents the maid parforce her piteous pain: