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Heark, how
she laughs aloud,
Although the world put on its
shrowd:
Wept at by the fantastic crowd,
Who cry:
one drop, let fall
From her, might save the
universal ball.
She laughs again
At our
ridiculous pain;
And at our merry misery
She
laughs, until she cry.
Sages, forbear
That
ill-contrived tear,
Although your fear
Doth
barricado hope from your soft ear.
That which still
makes her mirth to flow,
Is our sinister-handed woe,
Which downwards on its head doth go,
And, ere
that it is sown, doth grow.
This makes her spleen
contract,
And her just pleasure feast:
For the
unjustest act
Is still the pleasant'st jest.
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