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 prick’d thee out for women’s pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure.
In plain English
You have a woman's face—beautifully made by nature itself—and you are the master-mistress of my desire. You have a woman's gentle heart, but unlike false women, you don't shift and change with every mood. Your eyes are brighter and more honest than theirs; they draw people in without deception.
You're masculine in form and control all kinds of beauty—you steal men's eyes and astound women's souls. Nature meant to create you as a woman, but as she was making you, she fell in love with her own work. She added something that ruined my plans for you—that one male thing that serves no purpose for what I want.
Since nature marked you out for women's pleasure, here's the deal: your love belongs to me, and your sexual use belongs to them. I get the emotional bond; they get the physical.
