O woman’s face whith Nature’s own end painted,
Hast thou the Master-Mistress of my passion;
A women’s gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false woman’s fashion;
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue, all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men’s eyes and women’s soul 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 prick’d thee out for women’s pleasure,
Mine be thy love, and thy love’s use their treasure.