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