Sonnet Ccxlvii:

Love is the source of all my griefs, 'tis true, But 'tis the source of all my joys as well; I would not break the glamor of its spell, To reign the master of this mortal crew. My joyous seasons have been brief and few; Nor can I reckon up the days that tell My many sorrows, nor the cares that dwell Here at a heart long banished from thy view. This is my comfort: every grief or joy That rules today, and every hope I see Smile through the gloom of boding destiny-- Each thought, sense, memory--aye, the flimsy toy My fancy plays with, childlike, to destroy-- All we call life, I owe alone to thee.