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.-
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