1 If my dear love were but the child of state,
2 It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd,
3 As subject to Time's love, or to Time's hate,
4 Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd.
5 No, it was builded far from accident;
6 It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
7 Under the blow of thralled discontent,
8 Whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls;
9 It fears not policy, that heretic,
10 Which works on leases of short-numb'red hours,
11 But all alone stands hugely politic,
12 That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with show'rs.
13 To this I witness call the fools of Time,
14 Which die for goodness, who have liv'd for crime.