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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374406" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sonnet 54</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374406" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Of this worlds theatre in which we stay,<br>My love like the spectator ydly sits<br>Beholding me that all the pageants play,<br>Disguysing diversly my troubled wits.<br>Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits,<br>And mask in myrth lyke to a comedy:<br>Soone after when my joy to sorrow flits,<br>I waile and make my woes a tragedy.<br>Yet she, beholding me with constant eye,<br>Delights not in my merth nor rues my smart:<br>But when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry<br>She laughs and hardens evermore her heart.<br>What then can move her? if nor merth nor mone,<br>She is no woman, but a senceless stone.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Edmund+Spenser">Edmund Spenser</a></strong></div>

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