Of this worlds theatre in which we stay, <br />My love like the spectator ydly sits <br />Beholding me that all the pageants play, <br />Disguysing diversly my troubled wits. <br />Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits, <br />And mask in myrth lyke to a comedy: <br />Soone after when my joy to sorrow flits, <br />I waile and make my woes a tragedy. <br />Yet she, beholding me with constant eye, <br />Delights not in my merth nor rues my smart: <br />But when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry <br />She laughs and hardens evermore her heart. <br />What then can move her? if nor merth nor mone, <br />She is no woman, but a senceless stone.<br /><br />Edmund Spenser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-54/
