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    Sonnet 130

    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;
    If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
    I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
    But no such roses 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:
           As any she belied with false compare.
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