My Mistress's 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 hair 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 perfume is there more delight,
Than in the breath from my mistress reeks,
I love to hear her speak, Yet well I know
That music has 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.