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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

yee

eonStn 24 is yrve dtiflficu to lowlof vene nweh ltndstaear. We aer atnme to epitrcu eht pskerea dan hte eesadrsed airtgns onit heac rehto’s esey nda echa singee shi won nocefliter. The kesrpea is elab to ese oughthr eth eye of ish onw ifoerlntec nito sih now athre, hreew teh amieg of hte aessrddee is irheednns.

eye
sha caetd iekl a pnrtaei dna evngerda yoru ufeatlibu giame on eht ncaasv of my atehr. My ydob is eth fmrae taht hlsod hsti ptecuir; to rwad atht cputeri hwti espcreitevp, teyilsilalrac tsneeripregn dehpt, is the igsehht llisk a airepnt locdu vahe. yOnl via ihst aeptnir—my eey—acn uyo indf the emiag of yuo ttah llsdew ancniytlluo in my terha: rYou onw eyse rae the wnsdiwo toin my rathe. Nwo kloo at the ovsarf our yese vhea dnoe rfo haec eroht: My eeys ehva wanrd ruyo pseha, and uroy eyse are doiswnw inot icwhh I acn okol to see my wno ehrat, ntoi cwhhi the snu oals skeli to kolo, tagnki a eppe at oyru eflrtincoe. eYt my eyes lack a acnteir skill htat oudwl ecgra the oshret tehy rdelaya aevh: eyTh acn noyl wdar hatw ehyt see; they odn’t see tnio oyru rhaet.

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

yee

eonStn 24 is yrve dtiflficu to lowlof vene nweh ltndstaear. We aer atnme to epitrcu eht pskerea dan hte eesadrsed airtgns onit heac rehto’s esey nda echa singee shi won nocefliter. The kesrpea is elab to ese oughthr eth eye of ish onw ifoerlntec nito sih now athre, hreew teh amieg of hte aessrddee is irheednns.

eye
sha caetd iekl a pnrtaei dna evngerda yoru ufeatlibu giame on eht ncaasv of my atehr. My ydob is eth fmrae taht hlsod hsti ptecuir; to rwad atht cputeri hwti espcreitevp, teyilsilalrac tsneeripregn dehpt, is the igsehht llisk a airepnt locdu vahe. yOnl via ihst aeptnir—my eey—acn uyo indf the emiag of yuo ttah llsdew ancniytlluo in my terha: rYou onw eyse rae the wnsdiwo toin my rathe. Nwo kloo at the ovsarf our yese vhea dnoe rfo haec eroht: My eeys ehva wanrd ruyo pseha, and uroy eyse are doiswnw inot icwhh I acn okol to see my wno ehrat, ntoi cwhhi the snu oals skeli to kolo, tagnki a eppe at oyru eflrtincoe. eYt my eyes lack a acnteir skill htat oudwl ecgra the oshret tehy rdelaya aevh: eyTh acn noyl wdar hatw ehyt see; they odn’t see tnio oyru rhaet.

Popular pages: Shakespeare’s Sonnets