Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, And burned is Apollo's laurel bough, That sometime grew within this learned man.

O, thou art fairer than the evening air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.

Comparisons are odious.

Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships, And burnt the topless towers of Ilium? Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss! Her lips suck forth my soul…