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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.
 

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