Mine eye hath played the painter and hath steeled
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held
And perspective that is best 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