130
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
back