| | Sonnet 20 |
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A woman's face, with nature's own hand painted, |
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Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion; |
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A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted |
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With shifting change, as is false women's fashion; |
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An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, |
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Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; |
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A man in hue, all hues in his controlling, |
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Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. |
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And for a woman wert thou first created, |
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Till nature as she wrought thee fell a-doting, |
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And by addition me of thee defeated, |
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By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. |
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But since she pricked thee out for women's pleasure, |
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Mine be thy love, and thy love's use their treasure. |
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| Sonnet 20 |
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Your face is as pretty as a woman's, but you don't even have to use makeup—you, the man (or should I say woman?) I love. Your heart is as gentle as a woman's, but it isn't cheating like theirs. Your eyes are prettier than women's, but not as roving—you bless everything you look at. You've got the good looks of a handsome man, but you attract both women and men. When Mother Nature made you, she originally intended to make you a woman, but then she got carried away with her creation and screwed me by adding a certainthing that I have no use for. But since she gave you a prick to please women, I'll keep your love, and they can enjoy your body. |
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