MikeLigalig.com

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.