Was this the face that launched 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 sacked,
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's
air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.
Brighter art thou then flaming Jupiter,
When he appeared to hapless
Semele,
More lovely
than the Monarch of the sky,
In wanton Arethusa's azure arms,
And none but thou shalt be my paramour. Exeunt.