Some nymphs there are too conscious of their Mature the virgin was, of Egypt's race; face; What winning graces, what majestic mien! Worn out in public, weary ev'ry eye, face. PRIOR. This forehead, where your verse has said Take heed, my dear, youth flies apace; The thousand loves, that arm thy potent eye, PRIOR. Another nymph with fatal pow'r may rise, Venus! take my votive glass: PRIOR. Is she not more than painting can express, Or youthful poets fancy when they love? ROWE: Fair Penitent. The bloom of opening flowers' unsullied beauty, Nor leave one sigh behind them when they die. Softness, and sweetest innocence she wears, And looks like nature in the world's first spring. Rowe. POPE. Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul. POPE. Say, why are beauties praised and honour'd most, The wise man's passion and the vain man's toast? Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford? Why angels call'd, and angel-like adored? POPE. You still, fair mother, in your offspring trace PRIOR. That air and harmony of shape express, Fine by degrees and beautifully less. PRIOR. Bracelets of pearl gave roundness to her arm, And ev'ry gem augmented ev'ry charm. PRIOR. Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good, Beauty, wit, high birth, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subject all To envious and calumniating time. SHAKSPEARE. Beauty does varnish age as if new born, Since she did neglect her looking-glass, SHAKSPEARE. Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice, In our heart's table. SHAKSPEARE. Kate, like the hazel twig, Is straight and slender, and as brown in hue As hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the kernels. SHAKSPEARE. Black brows SHAKSPEARE. A combination and a form indeed See what a grace was seated on his brow: Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself; Become some women best, so they be in a semi- An eye like Mars, to threaten and command. There's no such thing as that we beauty call, It is mere cosenage all : For though some long ago Liked certain colours mingle so and so, Oh! it would please the gods to split You'll be no more your former you; SWIFT. Nice-finger'd art must emulate in vain, Whom call we gay? that honour has been long COWPER. The morning muses perch like birds, and sing Among his branches. CRASHAW. Dost thou use me as fond children do Me back again, to languish in my cage? He rounds the air, and breaks the hymnic notes DONNE. Tongued like the night-crow. DONNE. COLERIDGE. The winds were hush'd, no leaf so small DRAYTON. COWLEY. Nay, the birds' rural music too COWLEY. Foolish swallow, what dost thou COWLEY. Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The live-long night: nor these alone whose notes The small birds sang to her. With her nimble quills his soul did seem to hover, And here th' access a gloomy grove defends; Hence men and beasts the breath of life obtain, DRYDEN. |