Sonnet 151 Love is too young to know what conscience is, | |
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love? | |
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss, | |
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove; | |
For, thou betraying me, I do betray | |
My nobler part to my gross body's treason. | |
My soul doth tell my body that he may | |
Triumph in love—flesh stays no father reason, | |
But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee | |
As his triumphant prize—proud of this pride, | |
He is contented thy poor drudge to be, | |
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. | |
No want of conscience hold it that I call | |
Her “love” for whose dear love I rise and fall. |
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