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
painters 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.
