by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
      AKE all my loves, my love, yea, take them all:
      What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
      No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
      All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
      Then, if for my love thou my love receivest,
      I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
      But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest
      By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
      I do forgive thy robb'ry, gentle theif,
      Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
      And yet love knows it is a greater grief
      To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury.
      Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
      Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.