Blue eyes shimmer with angel glances,
  Like spring violets over the lea.
October’s Song.  C.F.  WOOLSON.

The harvest of a quiet eye,
That broods and sleeps OH his own heart.
A Poet Epitaph.  W. WORDSWORTH.

Stabbed with a white wench’s black eye. Romeo and Juliet, Act ii.  Sc. 4.  SHAKESPEARE.

                  Sometimes from her eyes
  I did receive fair speechless messages.
Merchant of Venice, Act i.  Sc. 1.  SHAKESPEARE.

For where is any author in the world
Teaches such beauty as a woman’s eye?
Love’s Labor’s Lost, Act iv.  Sc. 3.  SHAKESPEARE.

Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes,
Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.
Beppo.  LORD BYRON.

The fringed curtains of thine eye advance. The Tempest, Act i.  Sc. 2.  SHAKESPEARE.

Alas! how little can a moment show
Of an eye where feeling plays
In ten thousand dewy rays;
A face o’er which a thousand shadows go.
The Triad.  W. WORDSWORTH.

FACE.

                             There’s no art
  To find the mind’s construction in the face.
Macbeth, Act i.  Sc. 4.  SHAKESPEARE.

Your face, my thane, is a book where men
May read strange matters.  To beguile the time,
Look like the time.
Macbeth, Act i.  Sc 5.  SHAKESPEARE.

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.
Faerie Queene, Canto III.  E. SPENSER.

               The light upon her face
  Shines from the windows of another world. 
  Saints only have such faces.
Michael Angelo.  H.W.  LONGFELLOW.

  Oh! could you view the melody
  Of every grace,
  And music of her face.
Orpheus to Beasts.  R. LOVELACE.

A countenance more in sorrow than in anger. Hamlet, Act i.  Sc. 2.  SHAKESPEARE.

       In each cheek appears a pretty dimple;
  Love made those hollows; if himself were slain,
  He might be buried in a tomb so simple;
  Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,
  Why, there Love lived and there he could not die.
Venus and Adonis.  SHAKESPEARE.

  There Affectation, with a sickly mien,
  Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen.
Rape of the Lock, Canto IV.  A. POPE.

  Sweet, pouting lips, whose color mocks the rose,
    Rich, ripe, and teeming with the dew of bliss,—­
  The flower of love’s forbidden fruit, which grows
    Insidiously to tempt us with a kiss.
Tasso’s Sonnets.  R.H.  WILDE.

  Her face betokened all things dear and good,
  The light of somewhat yet to come was there
  Asleep, and waiting for the opening day.
Margaret in the Xebec.  J. INGELOW. 
  Her face is like the Milky Way i’ the sky,—­
  A meeting of gentle lights without a name.
Breunoralt.  SIR J. SUCKLING.