Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye
And all my soul, and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account;
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed
Beated and chopp’d with tanned antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
’Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
In plain English
I'm completely caught up in loving myself—it's a kind of sin that runs too deep to cure. I look at my own face and think it's the most beautiful thing around, better than anyone else's. I've become my own measure of worth.
But then I catch my actual reflection in the mirror: my face is weathered and scarred by time. That's when I realize my self-love is vain and foolish. I'd be wicked if I actually believed what I've been saying.
The truth is, when I praise myself, I'm really praising *you*. I'm taking your youth and beauty and using it to paint over my own aging. My self-admiration is really admiration for you—you're the one who makes me feel worth loving.
