Sonnet 54

Of this worlds Theatre in which we stay,

My love, like the spectator, idly sits

Beholding me, that all the pageants play,

Disguising diversly my troubled wits.

Sometimes I joy, when glad occasion fits,

And mask in mirth 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.