Thou, merry laughst, and pleasantly dost smile,
I wofull weepe, and (mestfull) sorrow still,
Lest this thy mirth encreasing, me beguile,
And weave a webbe for me of greater ill:
Too well perceive I, this thy deepe disdaine,
By this thy fained lookes, and cloaked glee,
Thou of disaster mine art glad and faine,
And faine my death as Basiliske wouldst see,
Since that of warre and bate this laughter is,
And not of gentle peace or calmy blisse.