Why thus longing, thus forever sighing
For the far-off, unattain'd, and dim,
While the beautiful all round thee lying
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn?
Beauty comes, we scarce know how, as an emanation from sources deeper than itself.
For her own person,
It beggar'd all description.
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
Heaven bless thee!
Thou hast the sweetest face I ever looked on;
Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel.
Of Nature's gifts thou may'st with lilies boast
And with the half-blown rose.
Beauty is brought by judgment of the eye,
Not utter'd by base sale of chapmen's tongues.
Beauty doth varnish age.
Beauty is a witch,
Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.
I'll not shed her blood;
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good;
A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly;
A flower that dies when first it 'gins to bud;
A brittle glass that's broken presently;
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night,
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear:
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
Her beauty makes
This vault a feasting presence full of light.
O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
Say that she frown; I'll say she looks as clear
As morning roses newly wash'd with dew.
'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on.
There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple:
If the ill spirit have so fair a house,
Good things will strive to dwell with't.
A lovely lady, garmented in light
From her own beauty.
She died in beauty—like a rose blown from its parent stem.
O beloved Pan, and all ye other gods of this place, grant me to become beautiful in the inner man.
For all that faire is, is by nature good;
That is a signe to know the gentle blood.
Her face so faire, as flesh it seemed not,
But heavenly pourtraict of bright angels' hew,
Cleare as the skye withouten blame or blot,
Through goodly mixture of complexion's dew.
They seemed to whisper: "How handsome she is!
What wavy tresses! what sweet perfume!
Under her mantle she hides her wings;
Her flower of a bonnet is just in bloom."
She wears a rose in her hair,
At the twilight's dreamy close:
Her face is fair,—how fair
Under the rose!
Fortuna facies muta commendatio est.
A pleasing countenance is a silent commendation.
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,
And most divinely fair.
How should I gauge what beauty is her dole,
Who cannot see her countenance for her soul,
As birds see not the casement for the sky?
And as 'tis check they prove its presence by,
I know not of her body till I find
'My flight debarred the heaven of her mind.
