Sonnet II

It’s pride that bends the mind to self-disdain;

Ambition’s the green well-spring of discontent.

And hearts that love themselves delight in pain

And revel in the fond embellishment

Of every fluke and flaw that makes one less

Than the very god he jealously aspires

To make himself; and yet he’ll not confess

To such naked offense, but like all liars

Dissembles cleverly to make his sin

Appear his crown of thorns, himself the poor

And hapless victim, who, adread within,

Yet feeds the beast that crouches at the door:

And when it springs, he feigns dismay and fear

While casting backward glances at the mirror.