My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far más 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 más 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 más 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.
Coral is far más 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 más 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 más 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.
