My mistress’ thighs are nothing like a pun,
Jokes are far more droll than jokes she’s said,
If wit be toil, why then her breasts are fun,
If desires be fires, fires burn in her head.
I have scrawled quatrains, couplets wry and tight,
But no such verse I seek upon her cheek,
And in some sonnets is there more delight
Than in the words my mistress deigns to speak.
I love to hear her muse, yet well I know
How educated men are thought profound,
I grant I never sought a scholar, no,
My mistress when she talks does not talk down.
And yet, by Heaven, I think my love as bright
As any soul that’s lit by inner light.