, by William Shakespeare
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 hast 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 this self deceivest
By willful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robb'ry, 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.
grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes.
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