“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; coral is far more red than her lips’ red; if snow be white, why then her breast 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 there is 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.” – William Shakespeare, “Sonnet CXXX”