Sonnet 130

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 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.

My lover’s eyes don’t gleam like light.

Her lips do not seduce like red.

Her skin’s not as soft as pure snow is white.

Her hair’s not like a princess’s braided.

I have seen roses, red, pink, and white,

But they don’t match the colors I see in her flesh.

There are natural perfumes that smell more sweet

Than her breath or the paste on her toothbrush.

I love to hear her speak, but it’s a voice

That music makes seem not so sonorous.

I’ll admit I have never seen a goddess.

My lover is quite conspicuous.

But she’s as wonderful, singular, rare,

As anything to which she cannot compare.