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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374417" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sonnet LIIII</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374417" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">OF this worlds Theatre in which we stay,<br>My loue lyke the Spectator ydly sits<br>beholding me that all the pageants play,<br>disguysing diuersly my troubled wits.<br>Sometimes I ioy when glad occasion sits,<br>and mask in myrth lyke to a Comedy:<br>soone after when my ioy 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 laughes, and hardens euermore her hart.<br>What then can moue her? if nor merth nor mone,<br>she is no woman, but a sencelesse 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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