For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise
Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain
That she that makes me sin awards me pain
The final line forms a summary of this unhealthy and pain-inducing, one-sided relationship.  Another  oxymoron  appears in “awards me pain”, an award being usually something positive; a prize.
Sonnet 141