" His body was as straight as Circe's wand;
Jove might have spit out nectar from his hand.
Even as delicious meat is to taste,
So was his neck in touching, and surpast
The white of Pelop's shoulder: I could tell ye,
How smooth his breast was, and how white his belly,
And whose immortal fingers did imprint
That heavenly path with many a curious dint,
That runs along his back; but my rude pen
Can hardly blazen forth the loves of men,
Much less of powerful Gods: let it suffice
That my slack muse sings of Leander's eyes,
Those Orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his
That lept into the water for a kiss
Of his own shadow, and despising many,
Died ere he could enjoy the love of any. "

― Christopher Marlowe , Hero and Leander