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 damasked, 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]