In Matildam Poem by John Ashmore

When Maud hath tane deep moultar of the Can,
She tels long stories of her dead Good-man:
How kinde he was to her at bed and boord;
And that he never gave her angry word.
Twixt every Cup she talks, no Healths forbears;
Which her resolves, like Niobé, to Tears:
Then sighes she, and drinks off another Cup
(For, Sorrow's dry.) then suddenly gets-up
(Nor can her Gossips cause her longer stay)
And t'her dear husbands Grave she takes the way:
And thither come (crossing her selfe) doth weep;
Then wrings her hands, kneels down, and fals asleep.