| MINE eye hath play’d the painter and hath stell’d | |
| 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, | 5 |
| 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 | 10 |
| 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. |