Sonnet 112

Your love and pity doth the impression fill, 
Which vulgar scandal stamped 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 steeled 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 they're dead.