Sonnet 35

No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.

All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorising thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, saiving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;

For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,--
Thy adverse party is thy advocate,--
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
Such civil war is in my love and hate,

That I an accessary needs must be
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.

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