No more be grieved at that which thou hast done. <br />Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud, <br />Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, <br />And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. <br />All men make faults, and even I in this, <br />Authorizing thy trespass with compare, <br />Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss, <br />Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are. <br />For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense— <br />Thy adverse party is thy advocate— <br />And 'gainst my self a lawful plea commence. <br />Such civil war is in my love and hate <br /> That I an accessary needs must be <br /> To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-35-no-more-be-grieved-at-that-which-thou/
