THOU, merry, laugh'st, and pleasantly dost smile:
I woeful weep, and mestful sorrow still;
Lest this thy mirth increasing, me beguile,
And weave a web for me of greater ill.
Too well perceive I this thy deep disdain,
By this thy feignèd looks and cloakèd glee.
Thou of disaster mine art glad and fain;
And fain my death, as basilisk, would'st see;
Since that of war and 'bate this laughter is,
And not of gentle peace and calmy bliss.