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 grown 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 Miſtres reekes.
I loue to heare her ſpeake, yet well I know,
That Muſicke hath a farre more pleaſing ſound:
I graunt I neuer ſaw a goddeſſe goe,
My Miſtres when ſhee walkes treads on the ground.
And yet by heauen I think my loue as rare,
As any ſhe beli'd with falſe compare.