The Face That Launch'd 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
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!
