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

I Amore to hear her speak, yet well I know
That Musica hath a far più pleasing sound;     
I grant I never saw a goddess go;

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