Sonnet 24

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'dThy beauty's form in table of my heart;My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,And perspective it is the 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 glazed with thine eyes.Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for meAre windows to my breast, where-through the sunDelights 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 eye reflects something much deeperthat paint on a painting—my peepersees love's very bestwhen it stares at your chest.So what if I look like a creeper?