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 breathe 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 bellied with false compare.
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