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| 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 damask'd, 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. |
