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.