- 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,
- 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
- 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.