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Sonnetsby William Shakespeare

XCII

 But do thy worst to steal thyself away, For term of life thou art assured mine; And life no longer than thy love will stay, For it depends upon that love of thine.  Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs, When in the least of them my life hath end. I see a better state to me belongs Than that which on thy humour doth depend: Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind, Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie. O! what a happy title do I find, Happy to have thy love, happy to die!   But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?   Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.