They praise, and they admire, they know not what,
	And know not whom, but as one leads the other,
	And what delight to be by such extoll’d,
	To live upon their tongues, and be their talk,
	Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise?

Milton.    

	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 damask’d, 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 goddess go;
	My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.

Shakespeare.