The Sonnets

A womanʼs face with natureʼs own hand painted,

Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;

A womanʼs gentle heart, but not acquainted

With shifting change, as is false womenʼs fashion:

An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,

Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;

A man in hue all ʼhuesʼ in his controlling,

Which steals menʼs eyes and womenʼs souls amazeth.

And for a woman wert thou first created;

Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,

And by addition me of thee defeated,

By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.

But since she prickʼd thee out for womenʼs pleasure,

Mine be thy love and thy loveʼs use their treasure.