Sonnet 130

  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 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,
  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.