XXXV. No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done
        
          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 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.