CXII. Your love and pity doth the impression fill
        
          Your love and pity doth the impression fill,
          Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow;
          For what care I who calls me well or ill,
          So you o'er- green my bad, my good allow?
          You are my all- the- world, and I must strive
          To know my shames and praises from your tongue;
          None else to me, nor I to none alive,
          That my steel'd sense or changes right or wrong.
          In so profound abysm I throw all care
          Of others ' voices, that my adder 's sense
          To critic and to flatterer stopped are.
          Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:
          		 You are so strongly in my purpose bred,
          		 That all the world besides methinks are dead.