Sonnet 112


  Your love and pity doth th' impression fill,
  Which vulgar scandal stamped upon my brow,
  For what care I who calls me well or ill,
  So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow?
  You are my all the world, and I must strive,
  To know my shames and praises from your tongue,
  None else to me, nor I to none alive,
  That my steeled sense or changes right or wrong.
  In so profound abysm I throw all care
  Of others' voices, that my adder's sense,
  To critic and to flatterer stopped are:
  Mark how with my neglect I do dispense.
    You are so strongly in my purpose bred,
    That all the world besides methinks are dead.


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