Sonnet 144


  Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
  Which like two spirits do suggest me still,
  The better angel is a man right fair:
  The worser spirit a woman coloured ill.
  To win me soon to hell my female evil,
  Tempteth my better angel from my side,
  And would corrupt my saint to be a devil:
  Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
  And whether that my angel be turned fiend,
  Suspect I may, yet not directly tell,
  But being both from me both to each friend,
  I guess one angel in another's hell.
    Yet this shall I ne'er know but live in doubt,
    Till my bad angel fire my good one out.


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