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. W5V8YQtCv/sqGxYAjwXX/gStTkG5YFUt8zkBZXxrxIamTfxq99MdNz27CPakG4ut