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OF this
worlds Theatre in which we stay,
My loue lyke the
Spectator ydly sits
beholding me that all the
pageants play,
disguysing diuersly my troubled wits.
Sometimes I ioy when glad occasion sits,
and
mask in myrth lyke to a Comedy:
soone after when my
ioy 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 euermore her hart.
What then can moue her?
if nor merth nor mone,
she is no woman, but a
sencelesse stone.
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