If he be dead, in whom no heart remains, 
Or lifeless be in whom no life is found; 
If he do pine that never comfort gains, 
And be distressed that hath his deadly wound; 
Then must I die whose heart elsewhere is clad, 
And lifeless pass the greedy worms to feed; 
Then must I pine that never comfort had, 
And be distressed whose wound with tears doth bleed. 
Which if I do, why do I not wax cold? 
Why rest I not like one that wants a heart? 
Why move I still like him that life doth hold, 
And sense enjoy both of my joy and smart? 
Like Niobe queen which made a stone did weep, 
Licia my heart dead and alive doth keep