My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far plus 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 plus delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I l’amour to hear her speak, yet well I know
That musique hath a far plus pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, par heaven, I think my l’amour as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
Coral is far plus 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 plus delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I l’amour to hear her speak, yet well I know
That musique hath a far plus pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, par heaven, I think my l’amour as rare
As any she belied with false compare.