The Sonnets

Mine eye hath playʼd the painter and hath stellʼd,

Thy beautyʼs form in table of my heart;

My body is the frame wherein ʼtis held,

And perspective it is best painterʼs art.

For through the painter must you see his skill,

To find where your true image picturʼd lies,

Which in my bosomʼs 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.