Sonnet 124

Lyrics

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 liv'd for crime