Shakespeare's Sonnet 40

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 blam’d, if thou thyself deceivestBy wilful 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 griefTo 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.

Take everyone I love, my love; yes, take them all.
What more do you have than you had before?
No love, my love, that you can call true love;
everything I had was yours before you took this too.
So if you take my lover because you love me,
I cannot blame you for making use of my love.
But you deserve blame if you deceive yourself
by deliberately enjoying what you claim to reject.
I forgive your robbery, gentle thief,
although you steal the little that I have.
And yet love knows it hurts much more
to suffer a lover’s betrayal than an enemy’s open attack.
You lustful charmer, who makes every fault look good,
hurt me enough to kill me, but we must not become enemies.