Oooops!

I'm Sorry The page that I promised you is still being worked on. But I promise that if you check back soon that it will be here. So until it gets finished, here is 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 demasked 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 godess 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.