His Mistress' Eyes

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 demasked, red and white,
yet no such roses see I in her cheeks.
And in some perfume is there more delight,
than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,
music hath a far more pleasing sound.
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treds on the ground.
And yet, I think my love as rare
as any she belied with false compare.

William Shakespeare

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