Of this worlds theatre in which we stay
My love like the spectator ydly sits
Beholding me that all the pageants play
Disguysing diversly my troubled wits
Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits
And mask in myrth lyke to a comedy:
Soone after when my joy to sorrow flits
I waile and make my woes a tragedy
Yet she, beholding me with constant eye
Delights not in my merth nor rues my smart:
But when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry
She laughs and hardens evermore her heart
What then can move her? if nor merth nor mone
She is no woman, but a senceless stone