Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all,
Wherein I should your great deserts repay,
Forgot upon your dearest love to call,
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;
That I have frequent been with unknown minds,
And given to time your own dear-purchas’d right;
That I have hoisted sail to all the winds
Which should transport me farthest from your sight.
Book both my wilfulness and errors down,
And on just proof surmise, accumulate;
Bring me within the level of your frown,
But shoot not at me in your waken’d hate;
Since my appeal says I did strive to prove
The constancy and virtue of your love.
In plain English
Go ahead and call me out: I've neglected you, failed to show you the gratitude you deserve. I forgot to cherish the love you gave me — the very thing that should bind me to you every day. I've wasted time with other people, squandered the attention that was rightfully yours.
I've chased after every distraction, deliberately sailed away when I should have stayed close to you. Write down every selfish act and mistake I've made. Pile up the evidence. Make yourself angry with me — that's fair.
But don't destroy me in that anger. Because really, I was testing you. Everything I did wrong was to prove that your love and your faithfulness could hold steady even when I let you down.
