Shakespeare's 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 fallsUnder the blow of thralled discontent,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,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.

If my precious love were merely a product of circumstance, it might be disowned as Fortune's illegitimate child, subject to Time's favor or hatred, gathered as weeds among weeds or flowers among flowers. No, it was built far beyond the reach of chance. It is not harmed by smiling displays of power, nor does it fall under the blows of discontent among the oppressed, which the opportunities of the times tempt us to follow. It does not fear political calculation, that betrayer of belief, whose plans run on leases lasting only a few hours. Instead, it stands alone with such great wisdom that it neither grows in the heat nor drowns in the rain. As witnesses to this, I call those fools of their times who die for goodness after living for crime.