text: 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,
  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 from me.