The Sonnets

Or whether doth my mind, being crownʼd with you,

Drink up the monarchʼs plague, this flattery?

Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true,

And that your love taught it this alchemy,

To make of monsters and things indigest

Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,

Creating every bad a perfect best,

As fast as objects to his beams assemble?

O! ʼtis the first, ʼtis flattery in my seeing,

And my great mind most kingly drinks it up:

Mine eye well knows what with his gust is ʼgreeing,

And to his palate doth prepare the cup:

If it be poisonʼd, ʼtis the lesser sin

That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.