9. So 54
—— E. Spenr
Of this worlds Theatre in which we stay,
My love like the Spectátor ydly sits
Beholdihat all the pageants’ play,
Disguysing diversly my troubled wits.
Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits,
And mask in myrth lyke to a edy:
Sooer when my joy to sorrow flits,
I waile and make my woes a Tragedy.
Yet she, beholdih stant 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 move her? if nor merth nor mone,
She is no woman, but a one.