Sonnet 145. By William Shakespeare. Those lips that love's own hand did make, breathed forth the sound that said, I hate, to me, that languished for her sake. But when she saw my wolf-hole state, straight in her heart did mercy come, chiding that tongue that ever sweet was used in giving gentle doom, and taught it thus anew to greet, I hate she altered with an end that followed it as gentle day, doth follow night, who like a fiend from heaven to hell has flown away. I hate from hate the way she threw, and saved my life saying, not you.