Page 1981 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

35 IT

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,

Authorising 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 accessory needs must be

To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.