| |
|
XL.
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,
I cannot blame thee for
my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed, 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;
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.
|
|
|
