Sonnet 124

Shakespeare Sundays with Chop Bard

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 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 liv'd for crime.