Sonnet 40
Take 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 thyself deceivestBy wilful taste of what thyself refusest.I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,Although thou steal thee all my poverty;And yet, love knows, it is a greater griefTo 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.
My Love's love has done me quite rottenby loving the loves that I'm not in.If they won't release him,I'm okay with a threesomeas long as my love's not forgotten.