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 damasked, red and white,
              But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
     And in some perfumes is there more delight
There 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
     Any yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
     As any she belied with false compare

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The World

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
     Little we see in nature that is ours:
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The sea that bared her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers;
     For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not- Great God! I'd rather be
     A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn:
     So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
     Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

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