Your love and pity doth the impression fill
    Which vulgar scandal stamp’d upon my brow;
    For what care I who calls me well or ill,
    So you o’er-green my bad, my good allow?
    You are my all the world, and I must strive
    To know my shames and praises from your tongue:
    None else to me, nor I to none alive,
    That my steel’d sense or changes right or wrong.
    In so profound abysm I throw all care
    Of others’ voices, that my adder’s sense
    To critic and to flatterer stopped are.
    Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:
    You are so strongly in my purpose bred
    That all the world besides methinks are dead.

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