To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?/Crystal is muddy. Oh,
how ripe in show/Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!/That
pure congealed white, high Taurus’ snow,/Fanned with the eastern
wind, turns to a crow/When thou hold'st up they hand. Oh, let me
kiss/This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!~A Midsummer
Night’s Dream (2.3.133-148)
