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 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.
Уильям Шекспир, Сонет 130