Sonnet LIIII


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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Sonnet LIIII