| |
|
XXXV.
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,
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.
|
|
|
