107    [from Sonnets]

35

No more bee greev’d at that which thou hast done,

Roses have thornes, and silver fountaines mud,

Cloudes and eclipses staine both Moone and Sunne,

And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.

5          All men make faults, and even I in this,

Authorizing thy trespas with compare,

My selfe corrupting salving thy amisse,

Excusing thy sins more then thy sins are:

For to thy sensuall fault I bring in sence,

10        Thy adverse party is thy Advocate,

And gainst my selfe a lawfull plea commence,

Such civill war is in my love and hate,

That I an accessary needs must be,

To that sweet theefe which sourely robs from me.