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.
If I were your mistress Shakey I'd feed you to the dogs, I would!
In all seriousness though, this is my favourite Shakespeare Sonnet. Sure his mistress smells like old cheese and she stomps around like a decrepit moose but he's like, "So what?" So she aint no Elle MacPhersonand she has a head of hair to rival Medusa herself, who cares? Certainly not this playwright. He loves her, even if mirrors don't.
It might not be the most pleasing love poem ever written but it's refreshing, beautiful and honest, what more could a woman ask for? However, it does leave me wondering what he might say if she turned to him and asked, “Does my bum look big in this tunic?”