Of human life must spring from woman's breast: Byron. Fair ladies! you drop manna in the way of starved people. Shakespeare. Her Angelic Beauty. Die when you will, you need not wear, Lord Herbert of Cherbury. With sweetest airs Entice her forth to lend her angel form Thy radiant locks, disclosing, as it bends, Where winning smiles, and pleasure sweet as love, Their soft allurement. Akenside. Her Angelic Nature. A creature as fair and innocent of guile, as one of God's own angels, fluttered between life and death! Oh! who could hope, when the distant world to which she was akin, half opened to her view, that she would return to the sorrow and calamity of this? Rose, Rose, to know that you were passing away like some soft shadow, which a light from above casts upon the earth; to have no hope that you would be spared to those who linger here; hardly to know a reason why you should be; to feel that you belonged to that bright sphere whither so many of the fairest and the best have winged their early flight; and yet to pray, amid all these consolations, that you might be restored to those who loved you-these were distractions almost too great to bear. They were mine by day and night, and with them came such a rushing torrent of fears, and apprehensions, and selfish regrets, lest you should die, and never know how devotedly I loved you, as almost bore down sense and reason in its course. You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, some drop of health came back, and mingling with the speech and feeble stream of life which circulated languidly within you, swelled it again to a high and rushing tide. I have watched you change almost from death to life, with eyes that turned blind with their eagerness and deep affection. Dickens. O Woman! in ordinary cases so mere a mortal, how, in the great and rare events of life, dost thou swell into the angel! Bulwer. There is a bud in life's dark wilderness, Whose beauties charm, whose fragrance soothes distress: That gilds the starting tear it cannot dry: That flower, that lonely beam, on Eden's grove To his low mind thy worth is all unknown, Who deems thee pleasure's transient toy alone : But oh! how most deceived, whose creed hath given Thine earthly charms a rival band in heaven! Yet thou hast charms that time may not dispel, Whose deathless bloom shall glow where angels dwell: Like morn's bright dew beneath the solar ray: Thy warm and generous faith, thy patience meek, To mitigate thy cup of earthly woe These shall remain, when sorrow's self is dead, When sex decays, and passion's stain is fled. Beresford. In her Moods of Anger. A noisy crowd, Dryden. Like woman's anger, impotent and loud. O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd ; Fie, fie! unknit that threat'ning unkind brow, Shakespeare. An Anxious One. The hue of her countenance had changed to a marble whiteness; its expression had lost nothing of its beauty; but it was changed, and there was an anxious haggard look about the gentle face which it had never worn before. Another minute, and it was suffused with a crimson flush, and a heavy wildness came over the soft blue eye. Again this disappeared, like the shadow thrown by a passing cloud, and she was once more deadly pale. Dickens. How Apostrophized. It is no pilgrimage to travel to your lips. Lady, you can enchain me with a smile. Your name, like some celestial fire, quickens my spirit. There's music in your smiles. Report could never have a sweeter air to fly in than your breath. Would I were secretary to your thoughts! Edward Philips, nephew of Milton. Though fate forbids such things to be, Her Sweet Attractions. Sweet are the charms of her I love, Byron. |