IF that my sensual deed had stol’n from thee
Aught that were part of thy most precious love,
Or made to swerve the loving soul of me,
That to thy service it should duller prove;
Had’t made to me thy grace less gracious seem,
Thy worth less worth, thy love a smaller prize,
Or bated aught of thy most rich esteem,
Which still grew richer in thy servant’s eyes;
Then were it fault too foul to find excuse,
And all I writ of thee were vows untrue;
My verse were nought but idle poet’s use,
Conceit’s worn weeds lac’d o’er with wording new.
But ’twas not so; though true my love before,
’Twas thenceforth purg’d, and priz’d thee all the more.