My girl's eyes are not at all 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 with mixed up red and white,
 But no such rose do I see in her cheeks;
 And in some scents there is more joy than's right
 Than in the breath that from my own girl reeks.
 I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
 That a good tune hath a far more nice sound;
 I grant I have not seen a fem god go;
 My girl when she does walk, treads 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