Sonnet Xxxv

William Shakespeare

     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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