Shakespeare's Sonnet 62

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eyeAnd 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 indeedBeated 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.

The sin of self-love fills my vision, my soul, and every part of me. There is no cure for this sin, because it is rooted so deeply in my heart. I think no face is as lovely as mine, no body so perfectly shaped, no excellence so valuable. I judge my own worth as though I surpass everyone else in every quality. But when my mirror shows me as I really am, battered, wrinkled, and darkened by age, I understand my self-love in quite the opposite way. Loving such a self would be wrong. It is you, my other self, whom I praise as myself, covering my age with the beauty of your youth.