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’.
In plain English
Her lips—crafted by Love itself—spoke the word 'I hate' to me, someone dying for her. But when she saw how wretched I'd become, mercy flooded her heart. She was ashamed that a mouth always so gentle and kind had used such a cruel word.
She taught those lips a new way to speak. She took 'I hate' and added something to the end—a little phrase that landed like daylight chasing away night, like heaven breaking through hell's darkness.
'I hate,' she finished, 'not you.' With those four words, she threw away the cruelty and saved my life.
