literature

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.