OF this worlds Theatre in which we stay, <br />My loue lyke the Spectator ydly sits <br />beholding me that all the pageants play, <br />disguysing diuersly my troubled wits. <br />Sometimes I ioy when glad occasion sits, <br />and mask in myrth lyke to a Comedy: <br />soone after when my ioy 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 laughes, and hardens euermore her hart. <br />What then can moue her? if nor merth nor mone, <br />she is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.<br /><br />Edmund Spenser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-liiii/
