Speaking from this world's theater in which we stay my love like a spectator idly sits.. disquising diversly my troubled wits. Sometimes I feel joy when the glad occasion fits. And when my joy to sorrow flits i cry and make my woes a tragedy. When I laugh he mocks, and when i cry he laughs and hardens evermore his heart. What then can move him? If not mirth or moan, he is not a man, but a senseless stone.