My Love

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun,
Coral is far more red than her lip's red;
If snow be white, wh then her breasts are dun,*
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head;
I have seen roses grown, red and white,
but no such roses I see in her cheeks;
adn 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.
*dun-brown or yellowish