Occasion cannot make me weak or strong

For mine own soul the true occasion is,

Nor shall I measure fact more short or long

Except the soul's rod space exceed or miss.

Like a revolving many‑coloured sphere

My soul turns to the event one casual side,

And shows to it what was already there;

Its hue with the turned hue the effect decide.

So, various by position, not by shape,

Outward in truth but by its motion’s seeing,

The produced act cannot foreseeing escape

Save it take colour of act for shape of being.

I am the same; change cannot change me for

More than mine own illusion of what is more.