Grandmother’s mother: her age, I guess,
Thirteen summers, or something less;
Girlish bust, but womanly air;
Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair;
Lips that lover has never kissed;
Taper fingers and slender wrist;
Hanging sleeves of stiff...

Poet:

Cromwell is dead, and risen; and dead again,

And risen the third time after he was slain

No wonder! For he’s messenger of Hell:

And now he buffets us, now posts to tell

What’s past; and for one more game new counsel takes
...

Poet: