For Later, with Apologies to Bill

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My mistress eyes are sparkling like the sun.
No coral on earth is as red as her lips' red.
If snow be white, why then her breasts are mounds.
If hairs be wires, fine wires grow from her head.
I've seen roses demasked, red and white, 
And these roses dance in her cheeks.
And in no perfume is there as much delight
As the breath which from my mistress seeps.
I love to hear her speak, and now I know
That music hath no more pleasing sound.
I grant, I never saw a goddess go
My mistress, with each foot, kisses the ground
And yes, I think my love so rare
as to be entirely without compare.

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This page contains a single entry by writch published on June 18, 2010 6:42 AM.

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