As an
imperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is put besides his part
Or some fierce thing replete with
too much rage
Whose strength abundance
weakens his own heart
So I for fear of trust forget to say
The perfect ceremony
of love's pride
And if my own love's strength
seem to decay
Or charge it with burden
of my own love's might
Own love's might
Oh, let my books be then
the eloquence
An d thumb for sages of
my speaking breast
Who plead for love and look for
re compense
More than that tongue
that more hath more expressed
Oh, learn to read what
silent love hath writ,
To hear with eyes belongs
to love's fine wit.
Mine eye hath played the painter,
And hath stelled thy beauty's
foaming table of my heart.
My body is the frame
where int is held,
and perspective 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 sharp is hanging,
still that hath his windows
glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turn
s eyes through,
eyes have done,
mine eyes have drawn thy shape
and thine for me.
Our windows to my breast,
where through the Sunday
lights to peep,
to gaze therein on thee.
Yet eyes this cunning,
want to grace their art,
they draw above what they see,
No, not the heart
as an imperfect actor
on the stage.
An d who,
when his fear is put beside his heart,
Or some fizzling ripplet with too much rage,
Whose strength abundance
weakens his own heart.
So I, for fear of trust,
forget to say
The perfect ceremony
of love's right,
And in mine own love's strength
seem to decay,
Nor charge with birth,
nor my own love's might,
with thy might.
Now see what good thy elo
quence hath done,
Mine eyes have blown thy
shaping bright,
I will love and look,
and my breath compends
More than that tongue
that more hath more expressed
Yet I will
read what silent love hath writ
To hear will I belong
to love's fine wit