Sonnet 110

Alas, ’tis true, I have gone here and there,

And made myself a motley to the view,

Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,

Made old offences of affections new.

Most true it is that I have look’d on truth

Askance and strangely; but, by all above,

These blenches gave my heart another youth,

And worse essays proved thee my best of love.

Now all is done, have what shall have no end:

Mine appetite I never more will grind

On newer proof, to try an older friend,

A god in love, to whom I am confined.

Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,

Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.

I’m sorry it’s true. Every which way

I’ve strayed. Made a spectacle.

Sold stars for the price of clay.

Mistakes habitual—

True, I’ve looked heartless

At truth, perversely in my way.

But then I digress, for how else

Would I have found the grace to say:

Thanks to you I found the best of love,

The love that has no end,

An appetite from above,

God, and a friend?

Open your arms next to heaven’s gates:

Much love suffers. Much love alleviates.