The Face That Launch'd a Thousand Ships: Christopher Marlowe

Was this that launch'd a thousand ships

And burnt the topless towers of Illium?

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 the heaven is in these lips,

And all is dross that is not Helena.

I will be Paris, 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 heal,

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 though than flaming Jupiter

When he'd appear'd to hapless Semele;

More lovely than the monarch of the sky

In wanton Arethusa's asur'd arms;

And none but thou shall be my paramour!