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No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:No More Be Grieved At That Which Thou Hast Done
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, Authórizing 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 áccessory needs must be To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
Don't be upset about what you've done anymore: Roses have thorns, and silver fountains have mud, Clouds and eclipses stain both the moon and the sun, And ugly disease lives in the sweetest bud. Everyone makes mistakes, and even I do in this, By justifying your wrongdoing with comparison, I corrupt myself by trying to fix your mistakes, Excusing your sins more than they deserve: Because I rationalize your sensual fault— Your opposing side is your defender— And I start a legal case against myself. There is such a conflict in my love and hate, That I must be an accomplice To that sweet thief who bitterly steals from me.