Chapter CXXIV

Thou art, in truth, my muse’s only guide,
That fashions by this pen thine image here,
Developèd, through loving, year by year:
The picture of thy beauty and thy pride.
For all my verse doth hold, thou dost decide,
Since, writing, I the thought of thee hold dear,
And must portray thy very joy and fear,
This mirror and thyself stand side by side.
Then, should thy true resemblance live herein
(An only offspring of my love, for me),
I treasure this thy likeness as my child;
And think thereon, as I do think on thee.
For thou art both my angel and my sin;
Since ’twas my sin to be by thee beguiled.