The speaker tells a loved one not to grieve over a mistake, comparing it to natural flaws: roses have thorns, fountains mud, the moon clouds. It sounds gentle at first, but he soon catches himself in the act of excusing too much. He admits that by making these comparisons he’s actually corrupting himself, becoming an advocate for the very person who harms him. Love and hate war inside him—a “civil war”—and he realizes he’s forced to aid the “sweet thief” who sourly robs him. The language turns legal, full of pleas and accessories, as if he’s on trial against himself. The mood is tender yet self-lacerating, a helpless aching that comes from knowing your forgiveness only deepens the wound. It’s a confession that loving someone can make you complicit in your own hurt.
Sonnet 35: No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done — Summary
No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done: Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud: Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. All men make faults, and even I in this, Authorizing thy trespass with compare, Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss, Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are; For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,-- Thy adverse party is thy advocate,-- And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence: Such civil war is in my love and hate, That I an accessary needs must be, To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.