XXXV

    No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done： Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud： Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, And loathsome¹ canker lives in sweetest bud. All men make faults, and even I in this, Authorizing² thy trespass³ with compare, Myself corrupting⁴, salving thy amiss, Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are； For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,—— Thy adverse⁵ party is thy advocate,—— And 'gainst myself a lawful⁶ plea commence： Such civil war is in my love and hate, That I an accessary needs must be, To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.