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SONNET 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 may'st 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 blam'd, 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.