My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; ACoral is far more red than her lips' red; BIf snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; AIf hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. BI have seen roses damasked, red and white, CBut no such roses see I in her cheeks; DAnd in some purfumes is there more delight CThan in the breath that from my mistress reeks. DI love to hear her speak, yet well I know EThat music hath a far more pleasing sound; FI grant I never saw a goddess go; EMy mistress when she walks treads on the ground. FAnd yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare GAs any she belied with false compare. G