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.