The speaker catches himself in a familiar love-trick. He asks whether his mind, so stuffed with thoughts of the beloved that it feels royally crowned, is simply guzzling the flattery that plagues monarchs. Or did the beloved’s love teach his eye a real alchemy, transforming monsters and gross things into perfect cherubs the instant they appear? He doesn’t hesitate long. It’s the first option — sheer flattery in his way of seeing. And his mind, playing the grand king, drinks it right up. The eye, he admits, knows exactly what suits the mind’s taste and prepares a flattering cup. If that cup is poisoned with illusion, well, the sin is a small one because his besotted eye loved it and started the whole affair. The mood is playful and self-mocking, not guilty. There’s a shrug of amusement here: a lover’s happy foolishness, knowingly swallowed and enjoyed.
Sonnet 114: Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you — Summary
Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you, Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery? Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true, And that your love taught it this alchemy, To make of monsters and things indigest Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble, Creating every bad a perfect best, As fast as objects to his beams assemble? O! 'tis the first, 'tis flattery in my seeing, And my great mind most kingly drinks it up: Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing, And to his palate doth prepare the cup: If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.