His pond’rous whistle from his neck descends; His woolly care their pensive lord attends: This only solace his hard fortune sends.
Propp’d on his lance the pensive hero stood, And heard and saw, unmov’d, the mourning crowd.
A bough his brazen helmet did sustain; His heavier arms lay scatter’d on the plain: A chosen train of youth around him stand; His drooping head was rested on his hand: His grisly beard his pensive bosom sought; And all on Lausus ran his restless thought.
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She paced back and forth in the hospital waiting room—looking pensive.