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.