| | Sonnet 62 |
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Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye |
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And all my soul, and all my every part; |
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And for this sin there is no remedy, |
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It is so grounded inward in my heart. |
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Methinks no face so gracious is as mine, |
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No shape so true, no truth of such account; |
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And for myself mine own worth do define, |
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As I all other in all worths surmount. |
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But when my glass shows me myself indeed, |
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Beated and chopped with tanned antiquity, |
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Mine own self-love quite contrary I read; |
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Self so self-loving were iniquity. |
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'Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise, |
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Painting my age with beauty of thy days. |
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| Sonnet 62 |
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The sin of self-love controls everything I see, and my entire soul, and every part of me. There's no way to get rid of this sin, it's so deeply rooted in my heart. I think that no one's face is as gracious as mine, no body so evenly proportioned, no one's integrity of such high worth. I calculate my value such that I surpass everybody else in everything. But when my mirror shows me how I really look, beaten and cracked by age and the sun, I come to an opposite conclusion: For myself to love myself so much would be a sinful error. It's you I'm praising when I praise myself, ornamenting my old age with the beauty of your youth. |
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