Like Hebe’s in her ruddiest hours, 10
A breath that softer music speaks
Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,
These are but gauds: nay, what are lips?
Coral beneath the ocean-stream,
Whose brink when your adventurer slips, 15
Full oft he perisheth on them.
And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft
That wave hot youth to fields of blood?
Did Helen’s breast, though ne’er so soft,