CXIV

    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 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 gust¹ is 'greeing, And to his palate doth prepare the cup： If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser² sin That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.