Sonnet 54

Of this worlds theatre in which we stay,

My love like the spectator ydly sits

Beholding me that all the pageants play,

Disguysing diversly my troubled wits.

Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits,

And mask in myrth lyke to a comedy:

Soone after when my joy 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 laughs and hardens evermore her heart.

What then can move her? if nor merth nor mone,

She is no woman, but a senceless stone.