Mine eye
hath played the painter and hath stelled,
Thy
beauty's form in table of my heart,
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 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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