Sonnet 84

Who is it that says most? Which can say more

Than this rich praise, that you alone are you,

In whose confine immurèd is the store

Which should example where your equal grew.

Lean penury within that pen doth dwell

That to his subject lends not some small glory;

But he that writes of you, if he can tell

That you are you, so dignifies his story,

Let him but copy what in you is writ,

Not making worse what nature made so clear,

And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,

Making his style admirèd every where.

You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,

Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.

Who can say the most? Who can say more

Than to say as much as this? You are you.

Whose power is equal to the power

To paint the rose the roses grew?

It’s a poor poet who can’t do much

To at least add something to the subject

Of his poem. But the one whose touch

Lights on you, if he can just reflect

The youness of you, no more and no less,

He’ll have done something so stunning

The whole world will confess

Its great beauty and meaning.

There’s a blessing, I guess, but also a curse

In being so great, poetry looks worse.