In his own words
Sonnet 130
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 delightThan in the breath that from my mistress reeks.I love to hear her speak, yet well I knowThat music hath a far more pleasing sound:I grant I never saw a goddess 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.
A demolition of overblown love-poem comparisons, one cliche at a time. The couplet lands it as a real compliment: she needs no false ones.