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.