The Sonnets

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,

Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:

O! but with mine compare thou thine own state,

And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;

Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,

That have profanʼd their scarlet ornaments

And sealʼd false bonds of love as oft as mine,

Robbʼd othersʼ bedsʼ revenues of their rents.

Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lovʼst those

Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:

Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows,

Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.

If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,

By self-example mayst thou be denied!