Sonnet 114

　　Or whether doth my mind，being crowned 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 flatt'ry in my seeing，

　　And my great mind most