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 reeks¹. 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 belied² with false compare.