No more be grieved at that which thou has done:
For as you know we err, this is the way of life.
So many sins that we commit make even devil blush,
Our imperfections are so obvious, no sense to hide.
And sins committed in the name of Love,
No matter how inadvertent or how innocent they are,
We tend mistakenly not to regard as such,
Thinking them posing threat to senses of no one.
But selfless love is pure for all sins it shuns
Committed both in name of Love and mere spite.

W. Shakespeare, Sonnet 35

No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.

All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;

For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense -
Thy adverse party is thy advocate -
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
Such civil war is in my love and hate

That I an accessary needs must be
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.