No more be grieved 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,
    Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
    Myself corrupting, salving 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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