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My mistress eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than 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 creeks;
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.