Crystal is muddy. Oh, how ripe in show
Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!
That pure congealèd white, high Taurus’ snow,
Fanned with the eastern wind, turns to a crow
When thou hold’st up thy hand: Oh, let me kiss
This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!
Midsummer Night’s Dream, iii. 2.
So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not
To those fresh morning drops upon the rose,