Shakespeare's Sonnet 84

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 storeWhich should example where your equal grew.Lean penury within that pen doth dwellThat to his subject lends not some small glory;But he that writes of you, if he can tellThat 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.

Who says the most? Who can say more than this priceless praise: you alone are you, and within you is stored everything that could serve as a model if your equal ever appeared. A writer's work is painfully poor if it adds no little glory to its subject. But anyone writing about you gives dignity to his account if he can simply say that you are you. Let him only copy what is written in you, without spoiling what nature made so clear, and that faithful portrait will make his talent famous and his style admired everywhere. Yet you add a curse to the blessings of your beauty by being so fond of praise that you make the praise you receive worse.