Sonnet 124. If my dear love were but the child of state

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: