Sonnet 149

Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not,

When I against myself with thee partake?

Do I not think on thee, when I forgot

Am of myself, all tyrant for thy sake?

Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?

On whom frown’st thou that I do fawn upon?

Nay, if thou lour’st on me, do I not spend

Revenge upon myself with present moan?

What merit do I in myself respect

That is so proud thy service to despise,

When all my best doth worship thy defect,

Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?

But love, hate on, for now I know thy mind:

Those that can see, thou lov’st, and I am blind.

How can you doubt—are you cruel?—that I love you

When I disgrace myself to be with you?

When I forget myself, the world too,

Just to be true to you.

Who do you hate that I call my friend?

Who do you love that I do not cherish?

If you see what’s broken in me, do I mend—

Or react and point out your blemish?

What do I care for that I wouldn’t forfeit

To be anyway there for you?

When I take the best in me and exhaust it

In loving even the worst in you?

But now, oh I see—you’re more attracted

To those less naïve, who act how you’ve acted.