Of this worlds Theatre in which we stay,
    My love lyke 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 laughes, and hardens evermore her hart.
What then can move her? if nor merth nor mone,
    she is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.