My true love's eyes are not much like the sun,
 Sea-stone 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've seen a rose two-toned in red and white,
 But no such bloom can I see in her cheeks,
 And in some scents there's much more of joy's light
 Than in the breath which from my true love reeks.
 I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
 That songs do please me far more with their sound.
 I grant I never saw a girl god go:
 My true love, when she walks, treds on the ground.
 And yet, by God, I think my love as rare
 As she who by a lie is called so fair.

                                -- Will the Bard
                                   (done by Kate D.)