{"article":{"id":201095,"heading":"My poverty","author":"Jaap den Haan","created":"2007-06-20 06:34:45","modified":"2007-06-20 06:34:45","last_modified":"Wed, 20 Jun 2007 13:34:45","article":"

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 willful taste of what thyself refusest.

I do forgive thy robbery, 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.

William Shakespeare

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