Sonnet 144

Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,

Which like two spirits do suggest me still.

The better angel is a man right fair;

The worser spirit a woman colour’d ill.

To win me soon to hell, my female evil

Tempteth my better angel from my side,

And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,

Wooing his purity with her foul pride.

And whether that my angel be turn’d fiend

Suspect I may, but not directly tell,

But being both from me, both to each friend,

I guess one angel in another’s hell.

Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt,

Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

I love consolation and I love despair,

Both of which seem to seduce.

One’s an angel to me, always there.

One tempts only when the times are worse.

The bad angel’s dark and courts me to hell

And somehow wrestles the good angel,

And would think everything just as well

To turn her into a devil.

And if she has become tainted or ill,

I wonder, but never can tell,

And since I am host to both good and bad angel,

I suppose they are both in a hell.

I’ll never know, but will live in uncertainty

Until the fiery discharges the good entirely.