Disclaimer: half of the lines belong to the mysterious character known as William Shakespeare

Love is too young to know what conscience is

It pricks thy tongue my heart to tease.

Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?

It lurks like a goblin or flies like a dove.

Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,

'Cause birds of a feather… will not believe this kiss,

Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:

Dive into pure lust and dare make a move –

For, thou betraying me, I do betray

The very force of nature that all of us obey:

My noble part to my gross body's treason;

My blossom is to fade into a darker season.

My soul doth tell my body that he may

Undo the spell, but that would make us say:

Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason;

Blood is too hot – our pupils turning crimson.

But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee

As my own self, the one they'll see

As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,

The body keeps its warmth – its conscience hide,

He is contented thy poor drudge to be,

Witness of darkness, creator of glee –

To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side –

A lie and a cruel truth that our lips once tried.

No want of conscience hold it that I call

Thee mine, mirror of silver, image of a sin –

Her 'love' for whose dear love I rise and fall.

For whom I end myself before I can begin.