No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud,
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authòrizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense-
Thy adverse party is thy advocate-
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence.
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
That I an àccessary needs must be
To that sweet thief wich sourly robs from me..
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