Heark, how she laughs aloud, <br />Although the world put on its shrowd: <br />Wept at by the fantastic crowd, <br />Who cry: one drop, let fall <br />From her, might save the universal ball. <br />She laughs again <br />At our ridiculous pain; <br />And at our merry misery <br />She laughs, until she cry. <br />Sages, forbear <br />That ill-contrived tear, <br />Although your fear <br />Doth barricado hope from your soft ear. <br />That which still makes her mirth to flow, <br />Is our sinister-handed woe, <br />Which downwards on its head doth go, <br />And, ere that it is sown, doth grow. <br />This makes her spleen contract, <br />And her just pleasure feast: <br />For the unjustest act <br />Is still the pleasant'st jest.<br /><br />Richard Lovelace<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lucasta-laughing/
