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Sonnet XXIV
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
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Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
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My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
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And perspective it is the painter's art.
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For through the painter must you see his skill,
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To find where your true image pictured lies;
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Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
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That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
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Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
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Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
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Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
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Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
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Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
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They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
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