THE SONNETS by William Shakespeare (48)

XLVIII

    How careful was I when I took my way, Each trifle under truest bars to thrust, That to my use it might unused stay From hands of falsehood, in sure wards¹ of trust！ But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are, Most worthy² comfort, now my greatest grief, Thou best of dearest, and mine only care, Art left the prey³ of every vulgar thief. Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest, Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art, Within the gentle closure of my breast, From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part； And even thence thou wilt⁴ be stol'n I fear, For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.