Fickle

Sooner will a man the winds ensnare, and sooner still With tiny bits of sunny rays his pocket fill; Sooner will he, with a threat, the stormy oceans calm, Or grasp the world immense and keep it in his palm; Sooner will he, hurting not himself, a bonfire slap, Or all the clouds upon the sky with a net entrap;. Sooner will in bitter tears the Mount of Etna drown, And sooner will a deaf-mute sing, a downright clown Utter something wise; and sooner will the wayward fate Be fixed, and death and laugh be one another’s mate; Sooner will a dream be true and poets cease to lie; Of no avail will sooner be an angel’s cry; Sooner will the sun at dusk into a cavern sail, Or there’ll be people in the wild, or peace in jail; Sooner will our minds be gone and words will cease to flow Than constancy may any woman ever know.

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