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.