You are more lovely and more temperate than a summer's day.
Flowers are thieves who steal your beautiful attributes.
Adonis is a poor imitation of you.
You are the master mistress.
Sluttish time can't besmear the living record of your memory.
Your love is more delightful than hawks or horses.
Lust makes people murderous, violent, blameworthy, savage, extreme, rude, cruel and untrustworthy.
Your worth is as wide as the ocean.
You look good without any makeup on.
You are betrothed to your own looks.
Some say your fault is youth, some your flippancy.
Your eyes are not as bright as the sun, your lips are not as red as coral, your breasts are not white as snow, your breath is not as sweet as perfume and your voice is not as pleasant as music.
You are too cruel to your sweet self.
You are the fairest and most precious jewel, yet some people say your face doesn't have the power to make love groan.
You are a truant muse.
You are a forgetful muse.
You are the tenth muse (worth ten times more than the old nine muses).
Like Eve's apple, you are not as sweet as you look.
Love's not time's fool.
You don't fear your mortality because your memory will live on in iambic pentameter (and you are repeatedly reminded of this).
Your eternal summer will not fade.