You have witchcraft in your lips (Henry V)

Thy lips, fair mistress, hold the Enchanter's tome,
Where spells of ardor in sweet verses roam.
A zephyr's whisper, or the tempest's roar,
On thy red shores, doth make my spirit soar.

As Phoebus' chariot races 'cross the sky,
Thy words doth chase the nightshade's poison by.
A verdant meadow in thy smile I find,
Where Love, like roses, comes to life entwined.

The lark doth rise at dawn with joyful lays,
Yet none so sweet as thine enchanting phrase.
Thou art the spring whence all my passions flow,
A fount of bliss, yet source of aching woe.

For nature's beauty in thy visage lies,
And in thy kiss, my winter's frost doth die.

But lo, what herb hath Ophelia cast,
That in my bosom blooms a love so vast?
A love that doth the mighty oak upend,
And makes the rigid willow tree to bend.

Thy lips, a chalice brimming with desire,
Doth set my leaden heart ablaze with fire.
A Midsummer's dream, in waking state,
Where Puck himself might envy such a fate.

The river's course, which never doth return,
Is like my love, that evermore shall burn.
For in thy gaze, I see the stars' own dance,
A cosmic play that leaves me in a trance.

Thus, spellbound by thy lips' sweet alchemy,
I am remade, and all the world's anew to me.