End of break :(

Sonnet 40:

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XL

  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 thy self deceivest

  By 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 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.

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The volta’s the yet in the last line. More tomorrow morning—