My mistress’s eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lip’s 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 damasked,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 pleasing sound;

I grant I nave 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 sje belied with false compare.