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CXXIV.
If
my dear love were but the child of state,
It might
for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd'
As subject to
Time's love or to Time's hate,
Weeds among weeds, or
flowers with flowers gather'd.
No, it was builded far
from accident;
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor
falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears
not policy, that heretic,
Which works on leases of
short-number'd hours,
But all alone stands hugely
politic,
That it nor grows with heat nor drowns with
showers.
To this I witness call the fools of time,
Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.
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