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CXXX.
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.
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