Sonnet 54

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.

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sergey May 20, 2013 at 7:45am

This is awful and robratterman sucks!


robert-bobert May 21, 2013 at 3:10am

Yeah, this guy is just nuts!

robratterman May 21, 2013 at 3:12am


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