Of this worlds theatre in which we stay,
My Love, like the spectator, ydly sits,
Beholding me, that all the pageants play,
Disguysing diversly my troubled wits. 
Sometimes I ioy when glad occasion fits,
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 laughs, and hardens evermore her hart. 
  What then can move her?  If nor merth, nor mone,
  She is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.

LV.

So oft as I her beauty doe behold,
And therewith doe her cruelty compare,
I marvaile of what substance was the mould
The which her made attonce so cruell faire. 
Not earth; for her high thoughts more heavenly are: 
Not water; for her love doth burne like fyre: 
Not ayre; for she is not so light or rare;
Not fyre; for she doth friese with faint desire. 
Then needs another element inquire,
Whereof she mote be made; that is, the skye. 
For to the heaven her haughty looks aspire,
And eke her love is pure immortall hye. 
  Then sith to heaven ye lykened are the best,
  Be lyke in mercy as in all the rest.

LVI.

Fayre ye be sure, but cruell and unkind,
As is a tygre, that with greedinesse
Hunts after bloud; when he by chance doth find
A feeble beast, doth felly him oppresse. 
Fayre be ye sure, but proud and pitilesse,
As is a storme, that all things doth prostrate;
Finding a tree alone all comfortlesse,
Beats on it strongly, it to ruinate. 
Fayre be ye sure, but hard and obstinate,
As is a rocke amidst the raging floods;
Gaynst which a ship, of succour desolate,
Doth suffer wreck both of her selfe and goods. 
  That ship, that tree, and that same beast, am I,
  Whom ye doe wreck, doe ruine, and destroy.

LVII.

Sweet warriour! when shall I have peace with you? 
High time it is this warre now ended were,
Which I no lenger can endure to sue,
Ne your incessant battry more to beare. 
So weake my powres, so sore my wounds, appear,
That wonder is how I should live a iot,
Seeing my hart through-launced every where
With thousand arrowes which your eies have shot. 
Yet shoot ye sharpely still, and spare me not,
But glory thinke to make these cruel stoures*. 
Ye cruell one! what glory can be got,
In slaying him that would live gladly yours? 
  Make peace therefore, and graunt me timely grace,
  That al my wounds will heale in little space.
[* Stoures, agitations.]

LVIII.

By her that is most assured to her selfe.