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William Shakespeare, 1564-1616 [1640], Poems: vvritten by Wil. Shake-speare. Gent (Printed... by Tho. Cotes, and are to be sold by Iohn Benson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11600].

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Selfe flattery of her beautie. [Sonnet CXIII / Sonnet CXIV / Sonnet CXV]
Since I left you, mine eye is in my minde,
And that which governes me to goe about,
Doth part his function, and is partly blind,
Seemes seeing, but effectually is out:
For it no forme delivers to the heart
Of birds, or flower, or shape which it doth lack,
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his owne vision houlds what it doth catch:
For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour or deformedst creature,
The mountaine, or the sea, the day, or night:
The Crow, or Dove, it shapes them to your feature.
Incapable of more repleat, with you,
My most true minde thus maketh mine untrue.
Or whether doth my minde being crown'd with you
Drinke up the monarchs plague this flattery?

-- --

Or whether shall I say mine eye saith true,
And that your love taught it this Alcumie
To make of monsters, and things indigest,
Such cherubins as your sweet selfe resemble,
Creating every bad a perfect best
As fast as objects to his beames assemble:
Oh tis the first, tis flattry in my seeing,
And my great mind most kindly drinkes it up,
Mine eye well knowes what with his gust is greeing,
And to his pallat doth prepare the cup.
  If it be poison'd, tis the lesser sinne,
  That mine eye loves it and doth first beginne.
Those lines that I before have writ doe lie,
Even those that said I could not love you deerer,
Yet then my judgement knew no reason why,
My most full flame should afterwards burne clearer.
But reckoning time, whose milliond accidents
Creepe in twixt vowes, and change decrees of Kings,
Tan sacred beautie, blunt the sharp'st intents,
Divert strong minds to th'course of altring things:
Alas why fearing of times tiranny,
Might I not then say now I love you best,
When I was certaine ore in-certaintie,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest:
  Love is a Babe, then might I not say so
  To give full growth to that which still doth grow.
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William Shakespeare, 1564-1616 [1640], Poems: vvritten by Wil. Shake-speare. Gent (Printed... by Tho. Cotes, and are to be sold by Iohn Benson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11600].