Sonnet 114

Or whether doth my mind, being crown’d with you,

Drink up the monarch’s 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, ’tis the first: ’tis flatt’ry in my seeing,

And my great mind most kingly drinks it up.

Mine eye well knows what with his gust is ’greeing,

And to his palate doth prepare the cup.

If it be poison’d, ’tis the lesser sin,

That mine eye loves it, and doth first begin.

So what: is my mind, feeling enthroned by you,

Cursed like a prince who’s convinced by flattery?

Or are all the beautiful things it sees true,

Thanks to the workings of love’s alchemy?

It sees no demons, only angels

Who bear a resemblance to you,

And makes of all the world’s bad angles

A design in which nothing’s askew.

It’s not love’s alchemy. It’s flattered seeing,

Which my mind grows decadent in.

I drink it up like a king

Who’s just first tasted sin.

My eyes just want to please my mind.

They might drink poison, but they’re not unkind.