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,
Authórizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing these sins more than these 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 áccessory needs must be
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
Don’t be upset anymore about what you did. Everything has its bad side: Roses have thorns, sparkling fountains have mud, the sun and the moon are periodically covered up by clouds and eclipses, and disgusting worms live in the sweetest flowers. All men do bad things—even me, right now: As I excuse your transgression by comparing it to other things, I corrupt myself by making excuses for your misdeeds (more excuses for these little sins than they even require). Because what I’m doing is taking your sins, which were just physical urges, and putting my mind to work on their behalf. The person you’ve hurt is now advocating for you—I’m now pleading the case against myself. I’m so conflicted between love and hate that I can’t resist helping that sweet villain who bitterly injures me every hour.