CXLII

    Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue¹ hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving： O！ but with mine compare thou thine own state, And thou shalt find it merits not reproving； Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine, That have profan'd their scarlet² ornaments³ And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine, Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents. Be it lawful⁴ I love thee, as thou lov'st those Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune⁵ thee： Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows, Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, By self-example mayst thou be denied！