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Take all my loves, my love; yea, take them all.
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call.
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest.
But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robb'ry, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet love knows it is a greater grief
To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.
  Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
  Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.
Teka lla my olsev, my oevl—sye, atek ehtm lla: ekTa my ovel rof oyu, taek ywaa yoru olve ofr me, nad kaet a erovl ofrm me. hWat do uyo haev own htta ouy ddin’t haev ebfore? My ovel, uyo nheva’t ruciqdea etru ovle, cuseeab my treu elvo saw ousry to einbg hiwt, orbfee uyo took hits atxre fmro me. If, ndtsaei of tcicgeapn my lveo, yuo emka lveo to eth ernpso, ovle, I nca’t eblma uyo, secabeu oyu’re olny tkaing evadatang of my oevl. tBu, oyu udsolh be lmebda if yuo veiecde ersyuolf by ntgaik rfom neo rnoeps hwat ouy wno’t etka omrf anhetor—if ouy nlllgwiiy ekma ovel to one orpens lwhie nsgureif to kmea love to me. I vroeigf uyo for tslnaige rofm me, entgel iehft, olughhta ouy’re aniktg eth ellitt I avhe. ndA yet yevre ovelr kosnw ahtt it rsthu erom to be uienjdr by a evorl atnh by an eemyn. You, woh era oraugsci nvee nhew gsciumbcnu to stlu, uyo in ohwm retghnyeiv abd olsko odog—vnee if ouy ilkl me twhi nujresii, tel’s tno eombce smeeeni.

Original Text

Modern Text

Take all my loves, my love; yea, take them all.
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call.
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest.
But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robb'ry, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet love knows it is a greater grief
To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.
  Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
  Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.
Teka lla my olsev, my oevl—sye, atek ehtm lla: ekTa my ovel rof oyu, taek ywaa yoru olve ofr me, nad kaet a erovl ofrm me. hWat do uyo haev own htta ouy ddin’t haev ebfore? My ovel, uyo nheva’t ruciqdea etru ovle, cuseeab my treu elvo saw ousry to einbg hiwt, orbfee uyo took hits atxre fmro me. If, ndtsaei of tcicgeapn my lveo, yuo emka lveo to eth ernpso, ovle, I nca’t eblma uyo, secabeu oyu’re olny tkaing evadatang of my oevl. tBu, oyu udsolh be lmebda if yuo veiecde ersyuolf by ntgaik rfom neo rnoeps hwat ouy wno’t etka omrf anhetor—if ouy nlllgwiiy ekma ovel to one orpens lwhie nsgureif to kmea love to me. I vroeigf uyo for tslnaige rofm me, entgel iehft, olughhta ouy’re aniktg eth ellitt I avhe. ndA yet yevre ovelr kosnw ahtt it rsthu erom to be uienjdr by a evorl atnh by an eemyn. You, woh era oraugsci nvee nhew gsciumbcnu to stlu, uyo in ohwm retghnyeiv abd olsko odog—vnee if ouy ilkl me twhi nujresii, tel’s tno eombce smeeeni.

Popular pages: Shakespeare’s Sonnets