Love is too young to know what conscience is; <br /> Yet who knows not conscience is born of love? <br /> Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss, <br /> Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove: <br /> For, thou betraying me, I do betray <br /> My nobler part to my gross body's treason; <br /> My soul doth tell my body that he may <br /> Triumph in love; flesh stays no father reason; <br /> But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee <br /> As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride, <br /> He is contented thy poor drudge to be, <br /> To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. <br /> No want of conscience hold it that I call <br /> Her 'love' for whose dear love I rise and fall.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-cli/
