aycan@opheliaaa· 4mo🇹🇷
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 diversely 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. edmund spenser’s amoretti
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