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.    [...]

Ur. 24 czerwca 1621 r. w Wi