Poem by William Shakespeare

Sonnet 35. No more be grieved at that which thou hast done

No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.

All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;

For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense -
Thy adverse party is thy advocate -
And 'gainst myself a lawful 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.

1. The Church at Stratford
2. From the Rape of Lucrece
3. How Like A Winter Hath My Absence Been
4. Silvia
5. It Was a Lover and His Lass

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