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- CXXIV
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- 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 lived for crime.
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