Soneto CXLV

[O Mestre dos Mestres dos Mestres... Shakespeare]

Those lips that Love's own hand did make,

Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate',

To me that languish'd for her sake:

But when she saw my woeful state,

Straight in her heart did mercy come,

Chiding that tongue that ever sweet

Was us'd in giving gentle doom;

And taught it thus anew to greet;

'I hate' she alter'd with an end,

That followed it as gentle day,

Doth follow night, who like a fiend

From heaven to hell is flown away.

 'I hate', from hate away she threw,

 And sav'd my life, saying 'not you'.