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. 
      



			 William Shakespeare   

				(1564 - 1616)