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| My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; | 1 |
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| Coral is far more red, than her lips red: |
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| If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; |
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| If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. |
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| I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, | 5 |
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| But no such roses see I in her cheeks; |
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| And in some perfumes is there more delight |
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| Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. |
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| I love to hear her speak, yet well I know |
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| That music hath a far more pleasing sound: | 10 |
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| I grant I never saw a goddess go,— |
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| My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: |
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 And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare, |
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| As any she belied with false compare. |
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