Love Sonnet 40

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 mayst 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 blamed, if thou thyself deceivest 
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest. 

I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief, 
Although 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.