By William Shakespeare
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
Thy 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 me
Are windows to my breast, where-through 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.
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Monday was a work and chore day, not exciting, though Adam worked from home so the cats did a lot of sneaking behind the television and mrooping to try to get his attention. I did laundry and organized some things and worked on a writing project and fixed up some Dreamwidth communities that I had imported from LiveJournal just in case.
Adam went out running with a friend at dinnertime, so we ate without him and watched the start of the Home Run Derby before he got home. He made it for most of Will, the new young Shakespeare series on TNT, which is such epic crack it makes Versailles seem like a model of restraint! From the Smithsonian Folklife Festival, the Flying Wallendas:
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