My Mistres eyes are nothing like the Sunne, Currall is farre more red, then her lips red, If snow be white, why then her brests are dun: If haires be wiers, black wiers grow on her head: I haue seene Roses damaskt, red and white, But no such Roses see I in her cheekes, And in some perfumes is there more delight, Then in the breath that from my Mistress reekes. I loue to heare her speake, yet well I know, That Musicke hath a farre more pleasing sound: I grant I neuer saw a goddesse goe, My Mistress when shee walkes treads on the ground. And yet by heauen I thinke my loue as rare, As any she beli'd with false compare.