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Page:The Pentamerone, or The Story of Stories.djvu/41

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THE MYRTLE.

perfect beauty, in which is no blemish, no mole-spot. O sleep, sweet sleep! heap poppies on the eyes of this lovely jewel; interrupt not my delight in viewing as long as I desire this triumph of beauty. O lovely tress that binds me! O lovely eyes that inflame me! O lovely lips that refresh me! O lovely bosom that consoles me! Oh where, at what shop of the wonders of Nature, was this living statue made? what India gave the gold for these hairs? what Ethiopia the ivory to form these brows? what seashore the carbuncles that compose these eyes? what Tyre the purple to die this face? what East the pearls to string these teeth? and from what mountains was the snow taken to sprinkle over this bosom?—snow contrary to nature, that nurtures the flowers and burns hearts."

So saying he made a vine of his arms, and clasping her neck, she awoke from her sleep and replied, with a gentle smile, to the sigh of the enamoured prince; who, seeing her open her eyes, said, "O my treasure, if viewing without candles this temple of love I was in transports, what will become of my life now that you have lighted two lamps? O beauteous eyes, that with a trump-card of light make the stars bankrupt, you alone have pierced this heart, you alone can make a poultice for it like fresh eggs! O my lovely physician, take pity, take pity on one who is sick of love;