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 blam'd, if thou this self deceivest By willful taste of what thyself refusest. I do forgive thy robb'ry, gentle thief, Although thou steal thee all my poverty; And yet love knows it is a greater grief To 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.

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