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In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone.
But my five wits, nor my five senses, can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be.
  Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
  That she that makes me sin awards me pain.
I swear, I don’t love you with my eyes: They notice a thousand flaws in you. Rather, it’s my heart that loves what my eyes despise; despite what you look like, my heart dotes on you. Nor are my ears delighted by the sound of your voice. Nor do I want to abuse my delicate sense of touch by groping you. Nor do my sense of taste or smell want to be invited to any feast of the senses in which you’re the main course. But neither my brain nor my five senses can dissuade my foolish heart from being your servant. My body stands here like an empty shell with no one to control it, while my heart goes off to be your slave and wretched property. I gain one thing from being plagued with love for this woman: The same woman who’s making me sin rewards me with pain.

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