Was this the face that launch’d a
thousand ships,
And burnt the topless towers of
Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal
with a kiss.
Her lips suck forth my soul: see,
where it flies!
Come, Helen, come, give me my
soul again.
Here will I dwell, for heaven is in
these lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena.
I will be Paris, and for love of thee,
Instead of Troy, shall Wittenberg
be sack’d;
And I will combat with weak
Menelaus,
And wear thy colours on my
plumed crest;
Yea, I will wound Achilles in the
heel,
And then return to Helen for a kiss.
O, thou art fairer than the evening
air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand
stars;
Brighter art thou than flaming
Jupiter
When he appear’d to hapless
Semele;
More lovely than the monarch of
the sky
In wanton Arethusa’s azur’d arms;
And none but thou shalt be my
paramour!
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