Take every one of my affections, my adoration, yea, take them all:
What hast thou then more than thou hadst previously?
No adoration, my affection, that thou mayst genuine romance call—
Every one of mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
At that point if for my adoration thou my affection receivest,
I can't point the finger at thee for my affection thou usest;
Be that as it may, yet be faulted if thou this self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do excuse thy robb'ry, delicate criminal,
In spite of the fact that thou take thee all my destitution;
But then love knows it is a more prominent sorrow
To hold up under adoration's wrong than loathe's known damage.
Lecherous elegance, in whom all evil well shows,
Slaughter me with demonstrates hatred for, yet we should not be enemies.
At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.
This is a beautiful poem about love.
Keep it up @jyotirawat
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