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XXIV.
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 the
painter's 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.
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