Claude Monet Regatta At Argenteuil painting
Horace Vernet The Lion Hunt painting
blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads,Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,And in no sense is meet or amiable.A woman moved is like a fountain troubled,Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;And while it is so, none so dry or thirstyWill deign to sip or touch one drop of it.Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,And for thy maintenance commits his bodyTo painful labour both by sea and land,To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;And craves no other tribute at thy handsBut love, fair looks and true obedience;Too little payment for so great a debt.Such duty as the subject owes the princeEven such a woman oweth to her husband;And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour,And not obedient to his honest will,What is she but a foul contending rebelAnd graceless traitor to her loving lord?I am ashamed that women are so simpleTo offer war where they should kneel for peace;Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway,When they are bound to serve, love and obey.Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth,
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