PLEASE HELP OMG I DONT KNOWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!

Of this world's theatre in which we stay,

My love like the spectator idly sits,

Beholding me, that all the pageants play,

Disguising diversly my troubled wits.

Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits,

And mask in mirth like to a comedy:

Soon after, when my joy to sorrow flits,

I wail, and make my woes a tragedy.

Yet she, beholding me with constant eye,

Delights not in my mirth nor rues my smart:

But when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry

She laughs, and hardens evermore her heart.

What then can move her? If nor mirth nor moan,

She is no woman, but a senseless stone.

Question 1: How many syllables are in each meter?

10

9

8

11

Question 2: Is there a volta in this poem?

Yes, line 1

Yes, line 13

Yes, line 14

No