Sonnet Cclxii:

The love of this dear woman is so sweet To me, whose heart has been the spurn and cuff Of wantons, that I cannot thank enough My God and her, whose bounties in me meet. O sweeter now is love to me, whose rough And straitening locks the snows of winter beat, Than when my tresses felt the amorous heat Of breathing girls within them sigh and puff. Love's gratitude is more than mere return; Love's latest offering is his garnered store, Given by a hand that henceforth gives no more. Upon this shrine my life's whole treasures burn-- Past, present, future; when the flame is o'er, My ashen heap can sleep but in an urn.