The speaker tries to convince himself that he’s bulletproof. He tells his lover that even if she leaves, he’s safe, because his very life depends on her love — the moment she stops loving him, he’ll die, so he’ll never have to endure the pain of knowing he was betrayed. There’s a feverish, almost triumphant logic to it: he’s found a “happy title,” a way to be both blessed by her love and released from all fear. But the bravado can’t hold. In the final couplet, everything crumbles with a single, uneasy thought: what if she’s unfaithful and he simply never finds out? The real terror isn’t dying of heartbreak — it’s living in blind contentment while being deceived. The poem shifts from defiant assurance to a hollow, anxious quiet, leaving us with the chill of a trust that can never fully settle.
Sonnet 92: But do thy worst to steal thyself away — Summary
But do thy worst to steal thyself away, For term of life thou art assured mine; And life no longer than thy love will stay, For it depends upon that love of thine. Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs, When in the least of them my life hath end. I see a better state to me belongs Than that which on thy humour doth depend: Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind, Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie. O! what a happy title do I find, Happy to have thy love, happy to die! But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.