My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun,Coral is far more red, than her lips red,If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun:
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head:
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,But no such roses see I in her cheeks,And in some perfumes is there more delight,Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet by heaven I think my love as rare,As any she belied with false compare.
