spectacle of her love, sodden to haddock’s meat, her 
     sorrow could not choose but be indefinite, if her delight in 
     him were but indifferent; and there is no woman but 
     delights in sorrow, or she would not use it so lightly for 
     everything.

          Down she ran in her loose night-gown, and her hair 
     about her ears (even as Semiramis ran out with her lie-
     pot in her hand, and her black dangling tresses about her 
     shoulders with her ivory comb ensnarled in them, when 
     she heard that Babylon was taken) and thought to have 
     kissed his dead corpse alive again, but as on his blue 
     jellied sturgeon lips she was about to clap one of those 
     warm plaisters, boistrous woolpacks of ridged tides came 
     rolling in, and raught him from her (with a mind belike to 
     carry him back to Abydos). At that she became a frantic