De oorspronkelijke tekst van dit sonnet verscheen gisteren hier. Vertaling: C.W. Schoneveld.

It’s not the fairness of your wild and rambling hair,
It’s not your forehead high, by no means lowly rated,
It’s not your mouth or brows, whose praise is unabated,
And ardently adored by lovers everywhere;
It’s not your lips, which wounded everyman out there, 
If she so wished, and cured him too, if no more hated;
It’s not your virtues, nor your graces so elated,
Nor your enchanting face, which still shines everywhere;
It’s not your cheeks, with purple redness decorated;
It’s not the pearls within your mouth, so sweetly mated;
It’s not your speech, which is so honey-like and sweet;
But what it is that drives my youth quite up the street,
And makes the youthful fires within my heart to rise,
Is nothing other than the riddle of your eyes.