May

Thou forsake fault

upon offence.

Speak, and I will halt,

thy defence.

Thou love, half so ill,

upon change,

I'll myself

strangle.

Be absent in my tongue,

sweet dwell,

our old

vow

I must love.

Thou wilt, now,

join the spite

for an after-loss.

Ah, sorrow,

reward

a rainy morrow,

linger out

other griefs.

But shall,

at first

seem

loss.

From Sonnets 89 and 90, Shakespeare.