Sonnet 112

Your love and pity doth the impression fillWhich 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 striveTo 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 careOf others' voices, that my adder's senseTo 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.
You're the salve to my painful abjection,my world and my source of direction;I love you for you,and all that you do,like filling this hole with affection.