from Doctor Faustus

Was this the face that Launcht a thousand ships,
And burnt the toplesse Towers of Ilium?
Sweet Hellen make me immortall with a kisse:
Her lips sucke forth my soule, see where it flies.
Come Hellen, come, give me my soul againe,
Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lippes,
And all is drosse that is not Helena.

I will be Paris, and for love of thee,
In stead of Troy shall Wittenberg be sack't,
And I will combat with weake Menelaus,
And weare thy colours on my plumèd crest.
Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heele,
And then returne to Hellen for a kisse.
O thou art fairer than the evenings aire,
Clad in the beauty of a thousand starres:
Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter,
When he appear'd to haplesse Semele:
More lovely then the Monarch of the sky,
In wanton Arethusa's azur'd armes,
And none but thou shalt be my Paramour.

--Christopher Marlowe