The Bookshelf

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 damask'd, 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.