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.
View all
Shakespeare's Sonnets:
