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...THE HERETIC: 2. IRONY by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE EXAMPLE by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES MARRIAGE A LA MODE: SONG by JOHN DRYDEN THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND by HENRY FIELDING HEALTHFUL OLD AGE, FR. AS YOU LIKE IT by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE STANZAS IN THE MEMORY OF EDWARD QUILLINAN, ESQ. by MATTHEW ARNOLD |