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To see the pennons rolling their long waves
Before the gale, and banners broad and bright
Tossing their blazonry.

Then more fierce

The conflict grew; the din of arms, the yell
Of savage rage, the shriek of agony,
The groan of death, commingled in one sound
Of undistinguish'd horrors; while the sun,
Retiring slow beneath the plain's far verge,
Shed o'er the quiet hills his fading light.

BEAUTY.

Southey.

Southey's Madoc.

Beauty is Nature's coin, must not be hoarded,
But must be current, and the good thereof
Consists in mutual and partaken bliss,
Unsavoury in th' enjoyment of itself:
If you let slip time, like a neglected rose,
It withers on the stalk with languish'd head.

Milton's Comus.

Beauty, like the fair Hesperian tree
Laden with blooming gold had need the guard
Of dragon-watch with unenchanted eye,
To save her blossoms and defend her fruit
From the rash hand of bold incontinence.

Oh! she is the pride and glory of the world:
Without her, all the rest is worthless dross:
Life, a base slavery; empire but a mock;
And love, the soul of all, a bitter curse.

Ibid.

Rochester's Valentinian,

Is she not brighter than a summer's morn,
When all the heav'n is streaked with dappled fires,
And fleck'd with blushes like a rifl'd maid?

Lee's Duke of Guise.

O she is all perfections!

All that the blooming earth can send forth fair;
All that the gaudy heavens could drop down glorious.

Lee's Theodosius.

A lavish planet reign'd when she was born,

And made her of such kindred mould to heav'n,
She seems more heav'n's than ours. Lee's Edipus.

Mark her majestic fabrick! She's a temple
Sacred by birth, and built by hands divine:
Her soul's the deity that lodges there;

Nor is the pile unworthy of the god.

Dryden's Don Sebastian.

At her feet were laid

The sceptres of the earth, expos'd on heaps,
To chuse where she would reign.

Dryden's All for Love.

The holy priests gaze on her when she smiles,
And with heav'd hands, forgetting gravity,

They bless her wanton eyes. Ev'n I who hate her,
With a malignant joy behold such beauty,
And, while I curse, desire it.

Ibid.

Her eyes, her lips, her cheeks, her shapes, her features Seem to be drawn by love's own hand; by love Dryden's Love Triumphant.

Himself in love.

One who would change the worship of all climates, And make a new religion where'er she comes, Unite the differing faiths of all the world,

To idolize her face.

Angels were painted fair to look like you:
There's in you all that we believe of heav'n,
Amazing brightness, purity, and truth,

Eternal joy, and everlasting peace.

C

Ibid.

Otway's Venice Preserved.

Oh! she has beauty might ensnare

A conqueror's soul, and make him leave his crown At random, to be scuffled for by slaves.

Otway's Orphan.
The bloom of op'ning flowers, unsullied beauty,
Softness, and sweetest innocence she wears,
And looks like nature in the world's first spring.
Rowe's Tamerlane.

Is she not more than painting can express,,
Or youthful poets fancy, when they love.

Rowe's Fair Penitent, a. 3, s. 1.

O how I grudge the grave this heav'nly form!
Thy beauties will inspire the arms of death,
And warm the pale cold tyrant into life.

Southern's Loyal Brother.

She seizes hearts, not waiting for consent,
Like sudden death, that snatches unprepar'd;
Like fire from heav'n, scarce seen so soon as felt.

Lansdown's Heroic Love.

O fatal beauty! why art thou bestow'd

On hapless woman still to make her wretched!
Betray'd by thee, how many are undone !

Patterson's Arminius.

'Tis not a set of features, or complexion,
The tincture of a skin, that I admire :
Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover,
Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense.

Beauty

Addison's Cato.

That transitory flower: ev'n while it lasts
Palls on the roving sense, when held too near,
Or dwelling there too long: by fits it pleases;
And smells at distance best: Its sweets, familiar
By frequent converse, soon grow dull and cloy you.

Jeffery's Edwin.

What tender force, what dignity divine,
What virtue consecrating every feature ;
Around that neck what dross are gold and pearl !

Young's Busiris.

To make the cunning artless, tame the rude,
Subdue the haughty, shake th' undaunted soul ;
Yea, put a bridle in the lion's mouth,

And lead him forth as a domestic cur,

These are the triumphs of all-powerful beauty!

"Joanna Baillie's Basil, a. 2, s. 4.

With goddess-like demeanour forth she went,
Not unattended, for on her as queen

A

pomp of winning graces waited still, And from about her shot darts of desire Into all eyes to wish her still in sight.

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 8.

Grace was in all her steps, Heav'n in her eye,
In ev'ry gesture dignity and love.

When I approach
Her loveliness, so absolute she seems
And in herself complete, so well to know
Her own, that what she wills to do or say,
Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best;
All higher knowledge in her presence falls
Degraded, wisdom in discourse with her
Lose discount'nanc'd, and like folly shows.

Her heav'nly form

Angelic, but more soft, and feminine,
Her graceful innocence, her every air
Of gesture or least action overaw'd

His malice, and with rapine sweet bereav'd
His fierceness of the fierce intent it brought.

c 2

Ibid.

Ibid.

Ibid. b. 9.

Beauty stands

In the admiration only of weak minds
Led captive; cease to admire, and all her plumes.
Fall flat and shrink into a trivial toy,
At every sudden slighting quite abash'd.

Milton's Paradise Regained, b. 2.
A native grace

Sat fair-proportioned on her polish'd limbs,
Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire,
Beyond the pomp of dress: for loveliness
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is when unadorn'd adorn'd the most.

Thomson's Seasons-Autumn.

Her form was fresher than the morning rose,
When the dew wets its leaves; unstain'd, and pure,
As is the lily, or the mountain snow.

Beauty! thou pretty plaything! dear deceit !
That steals so softly o'er the stripling's heart,
And gives it a new pulse unknown before.
The grave discredits thee: thy charms expung'd,
Thy roses faded, and thy lilies soil'd,

What hast thou more to boast of?

Ibid.

Will thy lovers Flock round thee now, to gaze and do thee homage?

Methinks I see thee with thy head laid low;
Whilst surfeited upon thy damask cheek,
The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes roll'd,
Riots unscar'd. For this was all thy caution?
For this thy painful labours at thy glass,
T'improve those charms, and keep them in repair,
For which the spoiler thanks thee not? Foul feeder!
Coarse fare and carrion please thee full as well,

And leave as keen a relish on the sense. Blair's Grave.

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Her grace of motion and of look, the smooth
And swimming majesty of step and tread,
The symmetry of form and feature, set
The soul afloat, even like delicious airs
Of flute or harp.

Milman.

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