Pass the breath mints!
The Bard paints an unflattering portrait of his mistress.
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 [brown],
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked [mingled red and white], red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath than 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 [walk];
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied [deceived] with false compare [comparison].
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