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