Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all; <br /> What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? <br /> No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call; <br /> All mine was thine before thou hadst this more. <br /> Then if for my love thou my love receivest, <br /> I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest; <br /> But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest <br /> By wilful taste of what thyself refusest. <br /> I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief, <br /> Although thou steal thee all my poverty; <br /> And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief <br /> To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury. <br /> Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, <br /> Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xl/
