Friday, July 8, 2011

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 hair 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

I...don't feel very good.