Sonnet 151

Love is too young to know what conscience is,

Yet who knowes not conscience is borne of love;

Then gentle cheater urge not my amisse,

Least guilty of my faults thy sweet selfe prove.

For thou betraying me, I doe betray

My nobler part to my grose bodies treason,

My soule doth tell my body that he may,

Triumph in love, flesh staies no farther reason,

But rysing at thy name doth point out thee,

As his triumphant prize, proud of his pride,

He is contented thy poore drudge to be

To stand in thy affaires, fall by thy side.

No want of conscience hold it that I call,

Her love, for whose deare love I rise and fall.