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 goddes 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.
Shakespeare (Sonnet 130)
This cracks me up and at the same time I find it disturbingly reassuring.
No comments:
Post a Comment