by
William Shakespeare
My mistress' eyes are nothing
like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red
If snow be white, why then her breast are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roaes 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 her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My misstress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
by
William Shakespeare
My mistress' eyes are nothing
like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red
If snow be white, why then her breast are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roaes 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 her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My misstress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
by
William Shakespeare
Coral is far more red than her lips' red
If snow be white, why then her breast are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roaes 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 her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My misstress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
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