The poem
OF this worlds Theatre in which we stay, My loue lyke the Spectator ydly sits beholding me that all the pageants play, disguysing diuersly my troubled wits. Sometimes I ioy when glad occasion sits, and mask in myrth lyke to a Comedy: soone after when my ioy 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 euermore her hart. What then can moue her? if nor merth nor mone, she is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.