A wicked sonnet by Shakespeare

Shakespeare's varied output is of course, er, varied, but Roald Dahl-esque wickedness is not something you ordinarily expect from him. Yet, here is one of his famous sonnets, in which he describes his beloved as rather less than perfect:-

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;
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.


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