ALL MEN MAKE FAULTS

No more be griev’d 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,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy 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 accessary needs must be
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.

Sonnet No. 35 by William Shakespeare.