I do not think my sister ...
    ...  So unprincipled in Virtue’s book
    And the sweet peace that goodness bosoms ever,
    As that single want of light and noise
    Could stir the constant mood of her calm thoughts,
    And put them into misbecoming plight. 
    Virtue could see to do what Virtue would
    By her own radiant light, though sun and moon
    Were in the flat sea sunk.  And Wisdom’s self
    Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude: 
    Where, with her best nurse, Contemplation,
    She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings. 
    That in the various bustle of resort
    Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair’d.

      Comus.

LORD BYRON.

          Around her shone
    The nameless charms unmark’d by her alone: 
    The light of love, the purity of grace,
    The mind, the music breathing from her face,
    The heart whose softness harmonized the whole—­
    And, oh! that eye was in itself a soul!

      The Bride of Abydos, Canto 1.

    Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
    And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

      Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto 1.

          She was a form of life and light,
    That, seen, became a part of sight;
    And rose wher’er I turned mine eye,
    The morning-star of memory!

      The Giaour.

        You know, or ought to know, enough of women,
    Since you have studied, them so steadily,
    That what they ask in aught that touches on
    The heart, is dearer to their feelings or
    Their fancy than the whole external world.

      Sardanapalus, A. 4.

          Oh! too convincing—­dangerously dear—­
    In woman’s eye the unanswerable tear! 
    That weapon of her weakness she can wield
    To save, subdue—­at once her spear and shield.

      Corsair, Canto 2.

    Who hath not proved how feebly words essay
    To fix one spark of beauty’s heavenly ray? 
    Who doth not feel, until his failing sight
    Faints into dimness with its own delight,
    His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess
    The might—­the majesty of loveliness?

      Bride of Abydos, Canto 1.

    So bright the tear in beauty’s eye,
    Love half regrets to kiss it dry;
    So sweet the blush of bashfulness,
    Even pity scarce can wish it less!

      The Bride of Abydos, Canto 1.

    Her glossy hair was cluster’d o’er a brow
    Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth;
    Her eyebrow’s shape was like the aerial bow
    Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth
    Mounting, at times to a transparent glow,
    As if her veins ran lightning.

      Don Juan, Canto 1.