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, blond wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white
But no such roses see I in her cheeks.
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in her 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 is rare
As any she belied with false compare...

W. Shakespeare (Sonnet 130)

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