My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; 
Coral is far more red, than her lips red; 
If snow be white, why then her [bad word] are dun; 
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses demasked, 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 [bad word]