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Sonnet 24

            ,            ,           ,       ,            ,
      Mine^eye | hath played | the paint|er and | hath steeled,
            ,         ,        ,      ,        ,
      Thy beaut|y's form | in tab|le of | my heart;
          ,     ,         ,          ,          ,
      My bo|dy is | the frame | wherein | 'tis held,
       ,        ,                    ,    ,         ,
      And per|spective | that is / best paint|er's art.
             ,            ,        ,         ,          ,
      For through | the paint|er must | you see | his skill,
       .   T    T     T          ,      ,          ,
      To find where your | true^im|age pic|tured lies,
             ,       ,         ,         ,        ,
      Which^in | my bos|om's shop | is hang|ing still,
             ,         ,         ,       ,            ,
      That hath | his wind|ows glaz|ed with | thine^eyes.
            ,           ,            ,          ,           ,
      Now* see | what good | turns^eyes | for eyes | have done:
             ,           ,           ,            ,          ,
      Mine^eyes | have drawn | thy shape, | and thine | for me
            ,       ,         ,                ,           ,
      Are wind|ows to | my breast, | where* through | the sun
           ,          ,         ,         ,         ,
      Delights | to peep,| to gaze | therein | on thee;
           ,           ,         ,         ,            ,
      Yet^eyes | this cun|ning want | to grace | their^art,
             ,          ,          ,           ,          ,
      They draw | but what | they see, | know not | the heart.

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