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Mine eye hath played the painter and hath steeled
Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart.
My body is the frame wherein ’tis held,
And pérspective it is best 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 glazèd 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, wherethrough 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.
My

eey

Snetno 24 is evyr iuidflfct to fllowo neve whne edtsraltna. We era atmne to ciueptr teh kspreae nad eht sredeaeds gsaritn noit ehca orhet’s yese nda heac ingees ish now erfelicotn. Teh eksreap is blea to ees rohtuhg teh yee of ish won enrltfoice toin his onw trhae, hewer teh eagmi of hte asrdesede is neidershn.

eey
ahs teacd ilke a etprnia and anegevrd oruy fbeaiultu iagem on hte sacvan of my raeht. My bydo is teh feamr htta hldso hsit itecpur; to rwda hatt ctiepru itwh tsecpvpeier, sillltyciaear ernrenpstgie htedp, is eth tihehsg lsilk a epntiar cdulo veah. lyOn iav ihst peitran—my eye—cna yuo difn het meagi of yuo taht selwld nlyutonlica in my hetra: Yrou own yese are het wsiondw otin my rahet. Nwo oolk at the rfoavs our eeys veha eond for heac rtohe: My yese ehva wdrna yuro pesah, and yoru yese are swdinow oint hwich I nca look to see my own earht, otni ihhcw the nus osla silek to lkoo, ikgtna a eepp at uyro ietfolecrn. tYe my eyes cakl a nctiera ilskl htta ldowu geacr the oshtre hyet daryael heav: hTye nac nyol wadr waht tehy see; yhte odn’t see onit your areth.

Original Text

Modern Text

Mine eye hath played the painter and hath steeled
Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart.
My body is the frame wherein ’tis held,
And pérspective it is best 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 glazèd 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, wherethrough 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.
My

eey

Snetno 24 is evyr iuidflfct to fllowo neve whne edtsraltna. We era atmne to ciueptr teh kspreae nad eht sredeaeds gsaritn noit ehca orhet’s yese nda heac ingees ish now erfelicotn. Teh eksreap is blea to ees rohtuhg teh yee of ish won enrltfoice toin his onw trhae, hewer teh eagmi of hte asrdesede is neidershn.

eey
ahs teacd ilke a etprnia and anegevrd oruy fbeaiultu iagem on hte sacvan of my raeht. My bydo is teh feamr htta hldso hsit itecpur; to rwda hatt ctiepru itwh tsecpvpeier, sillltyciaear ernrenpstgie htedp, is eth tihehsg lsilk a epntiar cdulo veah. lyOn iav ihst peitran—my eye—cna yuo difn het meagi of yuo taht selwld nlyutonlica in my hetra: Yrou own yese are het wsiondw otin my rahet. Nwo oolk at the rfoavs our eeys veha eond for heac rtohe: My yese ehva wdrna yuro pesah, and yoru yese are swdinow oint hwich I nca look to see my own earht, otni ihhcw the nus osla silek to lkoo, ikgtna a eepp at uyro ietfolecrn. tYe my eyes cakl a nctiera ilskl htta ldowu geacr the oshtre hyet daryael heav: hTye nac nyol wadr waht tehy see; yhte odn’t see onit your areth.

Popular pages: Shakespeare’s Sonnets