My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;posted by shakespeherian at 10:31 PM on May 24, 2008
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 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.
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And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake
Make answer Muse, wilt thou not haply say
Or I shall live your epitaph to make
But let your love even with my life decay
Fairing the foul with art's false borrowed face
Which like two spirits do suggest me still
And my sick muse doth give an other place
Reserve their character with golden quill
Which rank of goodness would by ill be cured
And in themselves their pride lies buried
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured
But when my glass shows me my self indeed
Love is a babe, then might I not say so
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show
posted by Kattullus at 7:42 PM on May 24, 2008