Sonnet 124
If my dear love were but the child of
state
«William Shakespeare»
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
flowers with flowers gathered.
No it was builded far
from accident,
It suffers not in
smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of
thralled discontent,
Whereto th' inviting
time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy
that heretic,
Which works on leases
of short-numbered 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.
No comments:
Post a Comment