Sonnet 3
Men change, that heaven above not more,
Which now with white clouds is all beautiful,
Soon is with gray mists a poor creature dull;
Thus, in this human theatre, actions pour
Like slight waves on a melancholy shore;
Nothing is fixed, the human heart is null,
'T is taught by scholars, 'tis rehearsed in lore;
Methinks this human heart might well be o'er.
O precious pomp of eterne vanity!
O false fool world! whose actions are a race
Of monstrous puppets; I can't form one plea
Why any man should wear a smiling face.
World! thou art one green sepulchre to me,
Through which, mid clouds of dust, slowly I pace.
Which now with white clouds is all beautiful,
Soon is with gray mists a poor creature dull;
Thus, in this human theatre, actions pour
Like slight waves on a melancholy shore;
Nothing is fixed, the human heart is null,
'T is taught by scholars, 'tis rehearsed in lore;
Methinks this human heart might well be o'er.
O precious pomp of eterne vanity!
O false fool world! whose actions are a race
Of monstrous puppets; I can't form one plea
Why any man should wear a smiling face.
World! thou art one green sepulchre to me,
Through which, mid clouds of dust, slowly I pace.
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