Or whether my mind, being crown'd with you...
Sonnet 114Or 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 flattery 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. |
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(Continuing from previous sonnet)
Is my imagination (having being made king by you) being flattered by these delusions? Or are my eyes in fact
functioning properly, and it’s your love that’s transforming all sorts of hideous sights into the gorgeous shape of you, fast as the speed of light? Oh, it’s the first one: it’s the eye’s flattery to the mind. My eyes know exactly what my mind wants to see, and fixes things up to please it – but, if that a transgression, it’s mitigated by my eye also liking the false images and drinking them up first before passing them on, like a servant testing whether the drink is poisoned.