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 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 !