Sonnet 35

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,

Authorizing 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 accessary needs must be

To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.

No more be sorry for what you have done:

Roses have thorns, and silver springs mud.

Clouds and eclipses both haunt moon and sun,

And worms find their way into the sweetest bud.

We all make mistakes, even I here,

Extending forgiveness in metaphors,

Which make your sins seem more severe

And almost sound like accusers.

Or worse, do I make them sound sensible,

Natural as roses and springs?

When really they were only carnal,

Not poetic, just guilty things.

Defending you, what shall I be?

An accessory in the crimes against me?