ashaman
Bluelighter
My lover's eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 69)
My lover's eyes are nothing like the sun,
nor do they sparkle and twinkle with delight.
A temper like her's causes men to run,
In all directions, scared with fright.
A coral's red is definately more red,
And surely perfume and cologne smell more fragrant,
Than the smell i smell from her head.
Or the nickname i give to her in private- the tyrant.
Why, should i hear her sing
I muff my ears,
Else the noise and the ringing,
becomes my worst fears.
And yet, by heaven, i think my love is a treasure,
As any belied with false compare and measure.
Compare what i've written with to this:
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130)
William Shakespeare
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.
My lover's eyes are nothing like the sun,
nor do they sparkle and twinkle with delight.
A temper like her's causes men to run,
In all directions, scared with fright.
A coral's red is definately more red,
And surely perfume and cologne smell more fragrant,
Than the smell i smell from her head.
Or the nickname i give to her in private- the tyrant.
Why, should i hear her sing
I muff my ears,
Else the noise and the ringing,
becomes my worst fears.
And yet, by heaven, i think my love is a treasure,
As any belied with false compare and measure.
Compare what i've written with to this:
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130)
William Shakespeare
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.
