A
Andromache
Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks. Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee. Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners? How fair and how pleasant art thou, O love, for delights!I'm just as God and my bra made me, madame.