Love's tongue is in the eyes.
Beauty when most unclothed is clothed best.
Drop, drop, slow tears, and bathe those beauteous feet Which brought from heaven the news and prince of peace. Cease not, wet eyes, his mercies to entreat; To cry for vengeance sin doth never cease; In your deep floods drown all my faults and fears, Nor let his eye see sin but through my tears.
The dying swan, when years her temples pierce, In music-strains breathes out her life and verse, And, chanting her own dirge, tides on her wat'ry hearse.
Who bathes in worldly joys, swims in a world of fears.
Love is like linen, often changed, the sweeter.
Long open panegyric drags at best, And praise is only praise when well address'd.
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