Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled

Thy beauty’s form in table of my hear;

My body is the frame wherein ’tis held,

And perspective it is best painter’s art.

For through the painter must you see his skill

To find where your true image pictured lies

Which in my bosom’s shop is hanging still,

That hath his windows glazed with thine eye.

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, wherethrough 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 CvNz3fkLtMNAAZKD5HaIJa3CMyu3SjTdKXoIQCjo3NY8VsPGSjF2zl1cEA5CPBNo