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 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 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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