If he be dead, in whom no heart remains, Or lifeless be in whom no life is found; If he do pine that never comfort gains, And be distressed that hath his deadly wound; Then must I die whose heart elsewhere is clad, And lifeless pa** the greedy worms to feed; Then must I pine that never comfort had, And be distressed whose wound with tears doth bleed. Which if I do, why do I not wax cold? Why rest I not like one that wants a heart? Why move I still like him that life doth hold, And sense enjoy both of my joy and smart? Like Niobe queen which made a stone did weej), Licia my heart dead and alive doth keep.