Who is it that says most, which can say more,
Than this rich praise: that you alone are you,
In whose confine immured is the store
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.
In plain English
What grander compliment could anyone pay you than to simply say: you are uniquely yourself? Everything excellent that could exist already lives within you, leaving no room for anyone else to equal you. A writer who can't give his subject at least some dignity is working with an impoverished talent.
But whoever writes about you already succeeds if he can just state the plain fact—that you are you. He doesn't need to embellish or distort what nature made so obvious. By faithfully copying what's already written in your nature, he'll win fame for his skill, and his style will be admired everywhere.
Yet you spoil your own beauty with a fatal flaw: you love praise so much that too much flattery becomes its own curse. Your hunger for compliments actually makes all those compliments ring hollow.
