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My mistress's 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 from her head
I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such rose 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 is rare As any she belied with false compare.
I love you
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