Who doth behold my mistress’ face,
   And seeth not, good hap hath he.
Who hears her speak and marks her grace 
   Shall think none ever spake but she.
In short for to resound her praise,
She is the fairest of her days.

Who knows her wit and not admires:
   Shall show himself devoid of skill, 
Her virtues kindle strange desires, 
   In those that think upon her still.
In short, for to resound her praise,
She is the fairest of her days.

Her red is like unto the rose, 
   When from a bud unto the sun, 
Her tender leaves she doth disclose, 
   The first degree of ripeness won.
In short, for to resound her praise 
She is the fairest of her days.

And with her red mix’d is a white,
   Like to that same of faire moonshine
That doth upon the water light, 
   And makes the colour seem divine.
In short, for to resound her praise,
She is the fairest of her days.