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.
