Classic Poem

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 mixed is a white
Like to that same of fair 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.