Sonnet 62

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,

And all my soul, and all my every part;

And for this sin there is no remedy,

It is so grounded inward in my heart.

Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,

No shape so true, no truth of such account;

And for myself mine own worth do define,

As I all other in all worths surmount.

But when my glass shows me myself indeed,

Beated and chopp’d with tann’d antiquity,

Mine own self-love quite contrary I read.

Self so self-loving were iniquity.

’Tis thee, my self, that for myself I praise,

Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

I love myself too much. It’s wrong.

My eyes, my soul, my body,

My heart. I love my laugh. Also, my song.

I don’t think there’s a remedy.

I don’t see a face more gracious than mine.

No one so true, no truth more profound.

Of any problem, I see no sign.

My voice, more sonorous than any sound.

Though when I see myself as real,

Posed to me by a mirror,

I see someone aging. Time’s bruises reveal

Someone who looks like a liar.

It’s you in me whom I give all this praise,

Alive in my life, ripe for these last days.