Sonnet CXXIV -- Sonnet 124

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