Like milk and blood being mingled both together,
A second fear through all her sinews spread,
Which madly hurries her she knows not whither:
⁠This way she runs, and now she will no further,
⁠But back retires to rate the boar for murther.

A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways,
She treads the path that she untreads again;
Her more than haste is mated with delays,
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,
⁠Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting,
⁠In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.

Here kennel'd in a brake she finds a hound,
And asks the weary caitiff for his master,
And there another licking of his wound,
Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster;
⁠And here she meets another sadly scowling,
⁠To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.

When he hath ceas'd his ill-resounding noise,
Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim,
Against the welkin volleys out his voice;
Another and another answer him,
⁠Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,
⁠Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.

Look, how the world's poor people are amaz'd