text: Of this worlds Theatre in which we stay,
  My love lyke 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 laughes, and hardens evermore her hart.
  What then can move her? if not merth nor mone,
  She is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.