Sonnet 121

’Tis better to be vile than vile esteemèd,

When not to be receives reproach of being,

And the just pleasure lost which is so deemèd

Not by our feeling but by others’ seeing.

For why should others’ false adulterate eyes

Give salutation to my sportive blood?

Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,

Which in their wills count bad what I think good?

No, I am that I am, and they that level

At my abuses reckon up their own;

I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel.

By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown.

Unless this general evil they maintain:

All men are bad and in their badness reign.

It’s better really to be a bad person than only believed

To be one, when being a good one makes our society

Perceive you as a bad one. Good’s rewards go unreceived

When what we are others don’t see.

But why should the pollution of others’ minds

Let them think that they know my soul?

Why should the public presume that it finds

In what is my weak something more like their cruel?

No: I am who I am. And those that seize

Like pharisees with judgment upon my character

In truth say more to indict their own. I am at ease,

Though they be at odds. I’m safe in my own sector.

Unless they presume the whole world is evil,

And give credence only to their own inner devil.