Sonnet LIV. Of this world’s theatre in which we stay

Edmund Spenser (1552?–1599)

OF this world’s theatre in which we stay,

My love like the spectator, idly sits;

Beholding me, that all the pageants play,

Disguising diversely my troubled wits.

Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits,

And mask in mirth like to a comedy:

Soon after, when my joy to sorrow flits,

I wail, and make my woes a tragedy.

Yet she, beholding me with constant eye,

Delights not in my mirth, nor rues my smart:

But, when I laugh, she mocks; and, when I cry,

She laughs, and hardens evermore her heart.

What then can move her? if nor mirth nor moan,

She is no woman, but a senseless stone.