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ArtistTo what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow! That pure congealed white, high Taurus snow, Fann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a crow 1180 When thou hold'st up thy hand: O, let me kiss This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!
https://www.opensourceshakespeare.org/views/plays/play_view.php?WorkID=midsummer&Scope=entire&pleasewait=1&msg=pl