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 loses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes there is more delight
Than in the breath that from mistress reeks.

I love to bear her speak, yet well I know
That music bath 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.