Aug 212011
  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.

Who has not dreamed to achieve a great thing, 
do some one great deed in the eyes of all, and, 
what is more, in one's own eyes? 

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