Sonnet 124

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 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.

If my love were just a trend of culture,

A product of the times, a play of power,

Inherited wealth, a lucky entrepreneur,

A temporary weed, or a temporary flower—

In short, if it were just an accident,

Part of a game of chance and nothing but—

But it isn’t. It pays the world no rent,

Does nothing fraudulent, makes nothing prostitute.

It doesn’t fear today’s laws, which disobey truth,

Or theories which pass with centuries like hours,

Or norms of culture deviant from real worth,

Or burning in flames or drowning in showers.

As a witness I call to the stand every fool

Whose death was good and whose life, criminal.