Mine eye hath play’d the painter and hath steeld,
Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart,
My body is the frame wherein ’tis held,
And perspective it is the painter’s art.
For through the Painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictur’d lies,
Which in my bosom’s shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes:
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done,
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the Sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
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