If spirits pure as those who kneel
Around the throne of light above,
The power of beauty's spell could feel,
And lose a heaven for woman's love,
What marvel that a heart like mine
Enraptured by thy charms should be,
Forget to bend at glory's shrine,

And le itself-ay, heaven-for thee?

Beauty and love-their emblems are flowers,
"Leir date of existence is numbered by hours.

Beauty is a doubtful good, a glass, a flower,
Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour;
And beauty, blemished once, for ever's lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost.
Shakspeare.

Beauty, thou dear plaything, dear deceit !
That steals so softly o'er the stripling's heart,
And gives it a new pulse unknown before.

Blair

The fair sex should be always fair, and no man
Fill thirty should perceive there's a plain woman.

What is beauty? Not the show

Of shapely limbs and features.

No!

Byron.

These are but flowers, that have their dated hours To breathe their momentary sweets, then go.

'Tis the stainless soul within,

That outshines the fairest skin.

Hunt.

All orators are dumb when Beauty pleadeth.

Shakspeare.

To give pain is the tyranny, to make happy the true empire, of beauty.

There was a soft and pensive grace,
A cast of thought upon her face,
That suited well the forehead high,
The eyelash dark and downcast eye.
The mild expression spoke a mind
In duty firm, composed, resigned.

She looks as clear

As morning roses, newly wet with dew.

Steele.

Scott.

Shakspeare.

Loveliness needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is when unadorned, adorned the most.

Shakspeare.

Oh, how I grudge the grave this heavenly form!
Thy beauties will inspire the arms of Death,
And warm the pale, cold tyrant into life.

Southey.

Socrates called beauty a short-lived tyranny; Plato termed it a privilege of Nature; Theophrastus, a delightful prejudice; Carneades, a solitary kingdom; Homer, a glorious gift of Nature; while Ovid styled it the gift of the gods.

Trust not too much to an enchanting face.

Virgil.

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

Beauty without virtue is a flower without perfume.

Mark the majestic fabric! 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.

Oh, she is all perfections,

Dryden.

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

Lee.

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize,
In her armor of glances and blushes and sighs?
And when wit and refinement have polished her darts,
They dazzle our eyes, as they fly to our hearts.

Burns.

All beaming with light as those young features are,
There's a light round thy heart that is lovelier far.
It is not that cheek; 'tis the soul dawning clear
Through its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear,
As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair,
Is looked up to the more because heaven is there.

Beauty is a beam from heaven,
That dazzles blind our reason.

Moore.

Campbell

Campbell.

For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile.

Oh, she has beauty might ensnare

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

I dearly love a changing cheek,

That glows or pales as feeling chooses,
And lets the free heart frankly speak
Upon it what the tongue refuses.
Mere eloquent blushes burn and fade,
Rich with the wealth of warm emotion,
Or starry dimples mock the shade,
Like jewels in a restless ocean.

Otway

Mrs. Osgood

In joyous youth, what soul hath never known
Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own?
Who hath not paused while Beauty's pensive eye
Asked from his heart the homage of a sigh?
Who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame,
The power of grace, the magic of a name?

Light, lovely limbs, to which the spirit's play
Gave motion airy as the dancing spray;

Campbell.

Lips in whose rosy labyrinth when she smiled the soni

was lost,

And then her look! Oh, where's the heart so wise
Could, unbewildered, meet those matchless eyes?
Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal,

Like those of angels just before their fall.

Moore.

Then her lip, so rich in blisses,
Sweet petitioner for kisses;

Rosy nest, where lurks persuasion,
Meekly courting Love's invasion.
Next beneath the velvet chin,
Whose dimple hides a love within,
Mould her neck, with grace descending;
While countless charms, above, below,
Sport and flutter round its snow.

Campbell.

I've known, if mortal ever knew, the spells of Beauty's

thrall,

And if my song has told them not, my soul has felt them

all;

But passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty's win

ning sway

Is now to me a star that's fallen, a dream that's passe

away.

Campbell.

She ceased, and turned upon her pillow; pale
She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears,
Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil
Waved and o'ershading her warm cheek, appears
Her streaming hair; the black curls strive, but fail,
To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears
Its snow through all; her soft lips lie apart,
And louder than her breathing beats her heart.

Playful blushes, that seem naught
But luminous escapes of thought.

Byron

Moore