No more be grieved at that which thou hast done

No more be grieved atthat 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