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 ******s 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 ******s 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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