O Helen, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show 140 Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow! That pure congealèd white, high Taurus’ snow, Fann’d with the eastern wind, turns to a crow When thou hold’st up thy hand: O, let me kiss This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!
