Sonnet 145

Those lips that Love's own hand did make,Breath'd forth the sound that said 'I hate,'To me that languish'd for her sake:But when she saw my woeful state, 4Straight in her heart did mercy come,Chiding that tongue that ever sweetWas us'd in giving gentle doom;And taught it thus anew to greet; 8'I hate,' she alter'd with an end,That follow'd it as gentle dayDoth follow night, who like a fiendFrom heaven to hell is flown away. 12'I hate' from hate away she threw,And sav'd my life, saying—'Not you.'

1–14 Cf. n.