316My glass shall not persuade me I am old,

317So long as youth and thou are of one date;

318But when in thee time's furrows I behold,

319Then look I death my days should expiate.

320For all that beauty that doth cover thee

321Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,

322Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me;

323How can I then be elder than thou art?

324Oh, therefore love be of thyself so wary,

325As I not for myself, but for thee will,

326Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary

327As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.

328 Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;

329 Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.

331As an unperfect actor on the stage,

332Who with his fear is put besides his part;

333Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

334Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;

335So I, for fear of trust, forget to say

336The perfect ceremony of love's right,

337And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,

338O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might:

339Oh, let my books be then the eloquence,

340And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,

341Who plead for love, and look for recompense,

342More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.

343 Oh, learn to read what silent love hath writ!

344 To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

346Mine eye hath played the painter, and hath steeled

347Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;

348My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,

349And perspective it is best painter's art;

350For through the painter must you see his skill,

351To find where your true image pictured lies,

352Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,

353That hath his windows glazèd with thine eyes:

354Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:

355Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me

356Are windows to my breast, wherethrough the sun

357Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;

358 Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art:

359 They draw but what they see, know not the heart.