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CXII.
Your love and pity doth the impression fill
Which
vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow;
For what care I
who calls me well or ill,
So you o'er-green my bad,
my good allow?
You are my all the world, and I must
strive
To know my shames and praises from your
tongue:
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That
my steel'd sense or changes right or wrong.
In so
profound abysm I throw all care
Of others' voices,
that my adder's sense
To critic and to flatterer
stopped are.
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:
You are so strongly in my purpose bred
That all the
world besides methinks are dead.
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