1 Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
2 Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
3 My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
4 And perspective it is best painter's art.
5 For through the painter must you see his skill,
6 To find where your true image pictur'd lies;
7 Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
8 That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
9 Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
10 Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
11 Are windows to my breast, wherethrough the sun
12 Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
13 Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art:
14 They draw but what they see, know not the heart.