Sonnet 119

What potions have I drunkof Siren tears
Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within,
Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,
Still losing when I saw myself to win?


What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never?
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted
In the distraction of this madding fever?


O benefic of ill, now I find true
That better is, by evil still made better.
And ruin'd love when it is built anew
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.


So I return rebuk'd to my content,
And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.



Shakespeare....