Poetry Monday

And now for a Shakespearean sonnet:

CXXX







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 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 false compare.