A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change as is false women’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 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 pricked thee out for women’s pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure.
A woman is an embodiment of beauty itself, the delicacy of nature, the mystery of night, the passion in the ever engulfing flame, one of nature’s greatest creations. Sculpted to perfection, her emotions untainted, her resolve unwavering, wielding immense power all without sacrificing her frailty.
Title: Sonnet 20
Year of Poem: 1609
Writer: William Shakespeare
Birthplace of Writer: United Kingdom