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.
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