Sonnet 112

Your love and pity doth th' impression fill Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow, For what care I who calls me well or ill, So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow? You are my all the world, and I must strive To know my shames and praises from your tongue; None else to me, nor I to none alive, That my steel'd sense or changes right or wrong. In so profound abysm I throw all care Of others' voices, that my adder's sense To critic and to flatterer stopped are. Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:     You are so strongly in my purpose bred     That all the world besides methinks are dead.