The Face That Launchd A Thousand Ships

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

Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars;

Brighter art thou than flaming

When he appear'd to hapless Semele;

More lovely than the monarch of the

In wanton Arethusa's azur'd arms;

And none but thou shalt be my paramour!