CX
Reading edition
NOT all the years of my uncounted pain Could teach me wisdom to myself and thee; So I still love, and thou still holdest me; Nor all the torture of thy fair disdain Wring from thy lips confession, or attain The height of misery that love must be When, unexpressed, itself it may not free From silent thought, or find some speech again. Yet love, though long unkind, hath taught me this, That I may find expression on its page; Though not the record of its perfect bliss, Yet, something of its value to mine age, Mixèd with poison from the fatal kiss That love still bringeth in its equipage.