'Where now I have no one to blush with me, (793)
To cross their arms and hang their heads with mine, (794)
To mask their brows and hide their infamy; (795)
But I alone alone must sit and pine, (796)
Seasoning the earth with showers of silver brine,
Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans, (798)
Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans.