O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem by that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem for that sweet odour which doth in it live. The canker blooms have full as deep a dye as the perfumed tincture of the roses, hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly when summer's breath their masked buds discloses; But, for their virtue only is their show, they live unwooed and unrespected fade, die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made. And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, when that shall vade, by verse distills your truth 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 firs 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.
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