lg
l
My Miſtres eyes are nothing like the Sunne,
l
Currall is farre more red, then her lips red
l
If ſnow be white, why then her breſts are dun:
l
If haires be wiers, black wiers grown on her head:
lg
l
I haue ſeene Roſes damaskt, red and white,
l
But no ſuch Roſes ſee I in her cheekes,
l
And in ſome perfumes is there more delight,
l
Then in the breath that from my Miſtres reekes.
lg
l
I loue to heare her ſpeake, yet well I know,
l
That Muſicke hath a farre more pleaſing ſound:
l
I graunt I neuer ſaw a goddeſſe goe,
l
My Miſtres when ſhee walkes treads on the ground.