My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;     
Coral is far mais 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 rosas damask'd, red and white,     
But no such rosas see I in her cheeks;     
And in some perfumes is there mais delight     
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I amor to hear her speak, yet well I know
That música hath a far mais pleasing sound;     
I grant I never saw a goddess go;

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:     
And yet, por heaven, I think my amor as rare
As any she belied with false compare.