No more be
grieved atthat 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,
Authorizing 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 accessary needs must be,
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from
me.
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