Of this world’s theatre in which we stay, My love like the spectator idly sits, Beholding me, that all the pageants play, Disguising diversly my troubled wits. Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits, And mask in mirth like to a comedy: Soon after, when my joy to sorrow flits, I wail, and make my woes a tragedy. Yet she, beholding me with constant eye, Delights not in my mirth 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 mirth nor moan, She is no woman, but a senseless stone.