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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,

Althoug 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.