My Big Question and a Sonnet

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 

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.