The Bookshelf

Or 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 alchymy,

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 poisoned, 'tis the lesser sin

That mine eye loves it, and doth first begin.