by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
      O 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 accessory needs must be
      To that sweet thief which sourly robs me.