William Shakespeare. (№ 398027)

No more be grieved at that 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,
Authrizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself the corrupting salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than their 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 ccessary needs must be
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.




My friend, deed your consigned to oblivion!
Rose there's thorns, there is silt in the key
The sun and moon - mist, Eclipse, -
Malicious worm is found in the flower.
All men are sinners, because sin and I
You quickly excusing;
You in favor of harming himself,
I, no matter what you do, all is forgiven.
Your sins, my love meet:
Your opponent, the defender AVAS,
Himself same a counterclaim Vineet
And, armed against himself,
Aspires to be a judge to justify a
All of you, my lovely thief!