38. Scratching could not make it worse, an it were such

a face as yours is.

Much Ado About Nothing.

39. The light of love, the purity of grace,

With mind and music breathing from her face.

40. She has a cool collected look

41.

As if her pulses beat by book,
A measured tone, a cold reply,
A management of voice and eye,

A calm, possessed, authentic air

That leaves a doubt of softness there.

BYRON.

WILLIS.

A face

Would put down Vesta; in her looks doth swim
The very cream of modesty.

BEN JONSON.

42. A sweet wild girl, with eye of earnest ray And olive cheek, at each emotion glowing.

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

43.

"Tis not the white or red

Inhabits in her cheek, that thus can wed
Your mind to adoration; nor her eye,

Though it be full and fair; her forehead high
And smooth as Pelop's shoulder; not the smile
Lies watching in those dimples to beguile

The easy soul; her hands and fingers long,
With veins enamelled richly; nor her tongue,
Though it speaks sweeter than Arion's harp;
Her hair woven into many a curious warp,
Able in endless error to infold

The wandering soul; nor the true perfect mould
Of all her body, which as pure doth show
In maiden whiteness, as the Alpsien snow;
All these, were but her constancy away,
Would please you less than a black stormy day
The wretched seaman toiling through the deep.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER-The Faithful Shepherdess.

44. Sweet blushes stain her red-red cheek, Her eyen are blacke as sloe;

The ripening cherry swelles her lippe,

And all her neck is snow.

PERCY'S RELIQUES-Marriage of Sir Gawine.

45. A perfect purity of blood enamels

46.

The beauty of her white.

JOHN FORD-The Broken Heart.

The flowers which scent her feet
Bloom for her sake alone; the polished shells
Raise, as she touches them, a sound as sweet
And musical as the breeze breathed on bells;
Her hand waves love, and her dark eyes rain spells;
Her mouth, men might mistake it for the rose
Whose opening lips afar the wild bee smells;

Her hair down-gushing in an armful flows,

And floods her ivory neck, and glitters as she goes.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

47.

Had limner's hand

Traced such a brow, and such a lip,

I would have sworn the knave had dreamed
In some fair vision of a fairer world.

48. Matchless in person and in mind, A saint in beauty's temple shrined.

FANNY KEMBLE.

49. Why a stranger-when he sees her In the street even-smileth stilly, Just as you would at a lily.

SOTHEBY.

MISS BARRETT.

50. A staidness sobers o'er her pretty face, Which something but ill hidden in her eyes And a quaint look about her lip, denies.

51. She is active, stirring, all fire,

Cannot rest, cannot tire,

To a stone she had given life.

LOWELL.

BROWNING-Flight of the Duchess.

52. In that proud port, which her so goodly graceth, Whiles her face she rears up to the sky,

And to the ground her eye-lids low embaseth,

Most goodly temperature ye may descry;
Mild humblesse, mixed with awful majesty.

SPENSER.

53. Hers is a beauty that makes sad the eye, Bright, but fast fading like a twilight sky; Her shape so finely, delicately frail,

As formed for climes unruffled by a gale;

The lustrous eye, through which looks forth the soul,
Bright and more brightly as it nears the gaol;
The fatal clearness of the varying hue,

Where life the quick lamp shines, in flickering
through,

The waning beauty, the funereal charms,

With which Death steals his bride into his arms.

The New Timon.

54. A brow whose frowns are vastly grand,

And an eye of sunlit brightness,

And a swan-like neck, and an arm and hand

Of most bewitching whiteness.

PRAED-Haunted Tree.

55. Hers is a look, hers is a face

That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free—
Such sweet neglect more pleaseth thee
Than all the adulteries of art,

That strike the eye but not the heart.

BEN JONSON.

56.

57.

I saw her,

And methought 'twas a curious piece of learning,
Handsomely bound, and of a dainty letter.
She has a face looks like a story!

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER-The Elder Brother.

Her hair

In ringlets rather dark than fair,
Does down her ivory bosom roll,
And hiding half adorns the whole.
In her high forehead's fair half round,
Love sits in open triumph crowned;
He in the dimple of her chin
In private state, my friends, is seen.
Her eyes are neither black nor gray,
Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray;
Their dubious lustre seems to show
Something that speaks nor yes, nor no.
Her lips, no living bard, I weet,

May say how red, how round, how sweet!

58. A beautiful and happy girl,

With step as soft as summer air,

And fresh young lip, and brow of pearl,
Shadowed by many a careless curl

Of unconfined, and flowing hair:
A seeming child in everything

Save thoughtful brow, and ripening charms,

PRIOR.