’tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forc’d breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected ’havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shows of grief, That can denote me truly: these, indeed, seem; For they are actions that a man might play; But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
There are no more uses of "dejected" in the play.
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She is dejected but trying to look cheerful.
She is feeling dejected, but I think her world will look better after a good night’s sleep.