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 thyself 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.
In plain English
Take everything I love, take it all — but what does that actually gain you? Real love isn't something you can steal from me and suddenly own. Everything I had was already yours before you wanted more.
If you're taking my love because I love you, I can't really fault you for using what I freely gave. But here's where I do blame you: you're deceiving yourself by wanting something you've decided to reject.
I forgive you — you're a gentle thief robbing me of nothing I didn't have. Yet I have to tell you: being wronged by love hurts far worse than being hated by an enemy. You're beautiful in a way that makes even betrayal look good, and you're killing me with cruelty, but we can't let this end us.
