Sonnet 145

Those lips that Love's own hand did make,

Breath'd forth the sound that said 'I hate,'

To me that languish'd for her sake:

But when she saw my woeful state,

Straight in her heart did mercy come,

Chiding that tongue that ever sweet

Was us'd in giving gentle doom;

And taught it thus anew to greet;

'I hate,' she alter'd with an end,

That follow'd it as gentle day

Doth follow night, who like a fiend

From heaven to hell is flown away.

      'I hate' from hate away she threw,

      And sav'd my life, saying—'Not you.'