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 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 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.
In plain English
My eye has worked like a painter, etching your beauty onto the canvas of my heart. My body becomes the frame that holds this portrait, and this inner vision—this perspective—is the highest art a painter can achieve. To truly see the skill involved, you'd have to look through me to find where your image hangs in the shop of my chest.
Our eyes have done each other a remarkable service: mine have captured your shape, and yours act as windows into my breast, where your light delights to look back at itself reflected in me. But here's what eyes cannot do, for all their cleverness—they can only draw what they see on the surface. They have no access to the heart beneath.
