CXXIII.

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dreffings of a former fight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou doft foift upon us that is old;

And rather make them born to our defire

Than think that we before have heard them told.

Thy registers and thee I both defy,

Not wondering at the present nor the past,
For thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste.
This I do vow, and this fhall ever be,
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.

CXXIV.

If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune's baftard be unfather'd,
As fubject to Time's love or to Time's hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers
No, it was builded far from accident;

It fuffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls

Under the blow of thralled discontent,

[gather'd.

Whereto th' 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,

[showers.

That it nor grows with heat nor drowns with

To this I witness call the fools of time,

Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.