LIV.

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 ioy when glad occasion fits, 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 laughs, and hardens evermore her hart. What then can move her? If nor merth, nor mone, She is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.