William Shakespeare. 1564–1616

Sonnet XL.

“Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all”

TAKE all my loves, my love, yea, take them all  
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?  
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;  
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.  
Then, if for my love thou my love receivest,    5
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;  
But yet be blam’d, if thou thyself deceivest  
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.  
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,  
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;   10
And yet, love knows it is a greater grief  
To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.  
  Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,  
  Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.