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| SONNET 24 |
| 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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