Sonnet 114. Or whether doth my mind being crowned with you

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: