What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one, hath every one, one shade,
And you but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring, and foison of the year,
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear;
And you in every blessed shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
In plain English
What are you made of? It's strange — millions of images and ideals seem to gather around you, yet you're just one person. Normally each thing has its own shadow or copy, but you're the opposite: you're the original that all those copies are trying to imitate.
When poets describe Adonis, they're really just making a pale copy of you. When artists paint Helen of Troy at her most beautiful, they're painting you in classical dress. Spring and harvest both reflect your beauty and generosity — in fact, every form of perfection we can imagine exists somewhere in you.
You contain some piece of every kind of outward beauty and grace. But here's what sets you apart: while you embody all these perfect forms, you're unlike any of them, because your greatest quality is a faithful, constant heart.
