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 nor merth nor mone, She is no woman, but a sencelesse stone. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WIND AND WINDOW FLOWER by ROBERT FROST THE INDIAN EMPEROR: SONG by JOHN DRYDEN THE SMACK IN SCHOOL by WILLIAM PITT PALMER THE BALLAD OF THE FOXHUNTER by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON by H. T. MACKENZIE BELL |