| | Sonnet 24 |
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Mine eye hath played the painter and hath steeled |
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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 pérspective it is best 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 glazèd 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, wherethrough 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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| Sonnet 24 |
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My eye
has acted like a painter and engraved your beautiful image on the canvas of my heart. My body is the frame that holds this picture; to draw that picture with perspective, realistically representing depth, is the highest skill a painter could have. Only via this painter—my eye—can you find the image of you that dwells continually in my heart: Your own eyes are the windows into my heart. Now look at the favors our eyes have done for each other: My eyes have drawn your shape, and your eyes are windows into which I can look to see my own heart, into which the sun also likes to look, taking a peep at your reflection. Yet my eyes lack a certain skill that would grace the others they already have: They can only draw what they see; they don't see into your heart. |
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