Love is too young to know what conscience is,
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body’s treason;
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason,
But rising at thy name doth point out thee,
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
No want of conscience hold it that I call
Her ‘love,’ for whose dear love I rise and fall.
In plain English
Love is so young and reckless it doesn't understand guilt. But here's the paradox: conscience itself is born from love, so who can blame me? Don't push me further into wrongdoing, you beautiful deceiver—if you keep betraying me, you'll end up guilty of the same faults you're coaxing out of me.
When you betray me, I betray my better self and hand control to my body's desires. My soul gives my body permission to triumph in this affair, and flesh needs no further persuasion. It rises at your name like a soldier saluting its prize. My body glories in this arousal and is happily your servant—ready to serve your needs, to stand by you or fall for you.
Don't think I lack conscience when I call her 'love.' I rise and fall—in every sense—for the sake of her love, and that's the whole truth of it.
