| NO more be griev’d 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, | 5 |
| Authorising 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,— | 10 |
| And ’gainst myself a lawful plea commence: | |
| Such civil war is in my love and hate, | |
| That I an accessary needs must be | |
| To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me. |