Sonnet 40

Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all:

What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?

No, love, my love that thou mayst true love call:

All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.

Then if for my love thou my love receivest,

I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;

But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest

By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.

I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,

Although thou steal thee all my poverty;

And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief

To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.

Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,

Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.

Take all my lovers, you can have them all.

You’re receiving nothing you didn’t have already.

True love is generous, after all.

All mine has been yours, and all mine will be.

Because I love you I would let you receive

My lover, not blame you, don’t you see?

But blame yourself if you deceive,

Stealing what I would have given for free.

Still I forgive your robbery, blessèd thief.

I never preferred greed to poverty.

Yet I feel it is actually a greater grief

To bear deceit than hostility.

Fear not harming me: such grace is your beauty,

You could not become my enemy.