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, Authrizing thy trespass with compare, Myself corrupting salving thy amiss, Excusing thy sins more than their 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 ccessary needs must be To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
— Уильям Шекспир