Jane Shore, A Tragedy (Excerpt) Poem by Nicholas Rowe

Submissive, sad, and lowly was her look,
A burning taper in her hand she bore,
And on her shoulders, carelessly confus'd
With loose neglect, her lovely tresses hung,
Upon her cheeks a faintish flush was spread,
Feeble she seemed, and sorely smit with pain,
While barefoot as she trod the flinty pavement,
Her footsteps all along were mark'd with blood.
Yet silent still she pass'd, and unrepining,
Her streaming eyes bent over on the earth,
Except when, in some bitter pang of sorrow,
To Heaven she seem'd in fervent zeal to raise
And beg that mercy man denied her here.