You say that I am fitful. Sweet, 'tis true; br But 'tis that I your fitfulness obey. br If you are April, how can I be May, br Or flaunt bright roses when you wear sad rue? br Shine like the sun, and my sky will be blue; br Sing, and the lark shall envy me my lay: br I do but follow where you point the way, br And what I feel you doing, straight must do. br The wind might just as well reproach the vane, br As you upbraid me for my shiftings, dear: br Blow from the south, and south I shall remain; br If you keep fixed, be sure I shall not veer. br Nay, on your change my changes so depend, br If ends your love, why then my love must end.