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 be dun;
If hairs be wires, black wire 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 there is 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.

                                  [See also:  Mo Ghrá-Sa (Idir Lúibini) by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill]