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My mistress'eyes are nothing like the sun

Coral is far more red than her lips'red,

If snow be white, why then her breaths are dun,

If hairs be wires, black wires grow upon 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

The music hath a far more pleasing sound,

I grant I never saw a goddess go,

My mistress, when she walk, treads on the ground,

And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,

As any she belied with false compare.

William Shakespeare...!!!

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