Where is any author in the world

Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye?

The idea of her life shall sweetly creep

Into his study of imagination;

And every lovely organ of her life

Shall come apparel'd in more precious habit,

More moving-delicate, and full of life,

Into the eye and prospect of his soul.

Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,

Shall win my love.

Win her with gifts, if she respect not words;

Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind,

More than quick words, do move a woman's mind.

You, that have so fair parts of woman on you,

Have too a woman's heart: which ever yet

Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty.

'Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud;

'Tis virtue that doth make them most admired.

From woman's eyes this doctrine I derive;

They sparkle still the right Promethean fire;

They are the books, the arts, the academes,

That show, contain, and nourish all the world.

Her voice was ever soft,

Gentle, and low: an excellent thing in woman.

Have you not heard it said full oft,

A woman's nay doth stand for naught?

Thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise,

And make it halt behind her.

Good name in man and woman,

Is the immediate jewel of their souls.

Women are soft, pitiful, and flexible.

Such duty as the subject owes the prince,

Even such a woman oweth to her husband;

And, when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sour,

And not obedient to his honest will,

What is she, but a contending rebel,

And graceless traitor to her loving lord?

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale

Her infinite variety: other women cloy

The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry

Where most she satisfies.

She's beautiful, and therefore to be wooed;

She is a woman, therefore to be won.

Say, that she rail; why, then I'll tell her plain

She sings as sweetly as a nightingale;

Say, that she frown; I'll say, she looks as clear

As morning roses newly wash'd with dew;

Say, she be mute, and will not speak a word;

Then I'll commend her volubility,

And say she uttereth piercing eloquence.

Flatter, and praise, commend, extol their graces;

... Say they have angels' faces.

That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,

If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.

Bethink thee on her virtues that Surmount,

And natural graces that extinguish art;

And, which is more, she is not so divine,

So full-replete with choice of all delights,

But, with as humble lowliness of mind,

She is content to be at your command.

Let still the woman take

An elder than herself; so wears she to him,

So sways she level in her husband's heart.

For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,

More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn.

Than women's are.

'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white

Fresh tears

Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew

Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd.

Patience and sorrow strove

Who should express her goodliest. You have seen

Sunshine and rain at once; her smiles and tears

Were like a better day: those happy smilets,

That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know

What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence,

As pearls from diamonds dropp'd.

She is mine own;

And I as rich in having such a jewel

As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,

The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.

A woman impudent and mannish grown

Is not more loath'd than an effeminate man

In time of action.

A woman's face, with Nature's own hand painted,

Hast thou ...

A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted

With shifting change, as is false woman's fashion:

An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling

Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth.

No other but a woman's reason;

I think him so, because I think him so.

If ladies be but young and fair,

They have the gift to know it.

If she do frown, 'tis not in hate of you,

But rather to beget more love in you:

If she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone;

Take no repulse, whatever she doth say;

For "Get you gone," she doth not mean "Away!"

She never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,

Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in thought,

And, with a green and yellow melancholy,

She saw, like Patience on a monument,

Smiling at grief.

She shall be

A pattern to all ... living with her....

Holy and heavenly thoughts shall still counsel her;

She shall be lov'd and fear'd. Her own shall bless her....

... Those about her

From her shall read the perfect ways of honour....

... Yet a virgin,

A most unspotted lily shall she pass

To the ground, and all shall mourn her.

Grace was in all her steps, Heaven in her eye,

In every gesture dignity and love.

When I approach

Her loveliness, so absolute she seems

And in herself complete, so well to know

Her own, that what she wills to do or say

Seems wisest, virtuest, discreetest, best.

Nothing lovelier can be found

In woman than to study household good,

And good works in her husband to promote.

For contemplation he and valour form'd;

For softness she and sweet attractive grace;

He for God only, she for God in him.

Among daughters of men …

Many are in each region passing fair

As the noon sky; more like to goddesses

Than mortal creatures; graceful and discreet;

… Persuasive …

Such objects have the power to soften and tame

Severest temper.

Ladies, whose bright eyes

Rain influence.

Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined.

O fairest of Creation, last and best

Of all God's works, creature in whom excell'd

Whatever can to sight or thought be form'd,

Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!

Curiosity, inquisitive, importune

Of secrets, then with like infirmity

To publish them, both common female faults.

In argument with men, a woman ever

Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause.

Thus it will befall

Him who to worth in woman overturning

Lets her will rule; restraint she will not brook,

And left to herself, if evil thence ensue,

She first his weak indulgence will accuse.

Daughter of God …

I, from the influence of thy looks, receive

Access in every virtue: and in thy sight

More wise, more watchful, stronger, if need were

Of outward strength; while shame, thou looking on.

Shame to be overcome or overreach'd.

Would utmost vigour raise, and raised unite.

Why shouldst not thou like sense within thee feel

When I am present, and thy trial choose

With me, best witness of thy virtue tried?

By his countenance he seem'd

Entering on studious thoughts

So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity,

That, when a soul is found sincerely so

A thousand liveried angels lackey her,

Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt,

And in clear dream and solemn vision

Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear;

Till oft converse with heavenly habitants

Begin to cast a beam on the outward shape.

A smile that glow'd

Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.

She has a hidden strength …

… The strength of Heaven,

It may be termed her own.

'Tis chastity … chastity….

She that has that, is clad in complete steel;

And, like a quiver'd Nymph with arrows keen,

May trace huge forests, and unharbour'd heaths,

… and sandy perilous wilds …

She may pass on with unblench'd majesty

Be it not done in pride, or in presumption.

O Woman, in thy native innocence, rely

On what thou hast of virtue: summon all,

For God toward thee hath done His part, do thine.

What higher in her society thou find'st

Attractive, human, rational, love still;

In loving thou dost well, in passion not

Wherein true love consists not.

The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks,

Safest and seemliest by her husband stays,

Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.

Greatness of mind and nobleness their seat

Build in her loveliest, and create an awe

About her, as a guard angelic placed.

Those graceful acts,

Those thousand decencies that daily flow

From all her words and actions mix'd with love

And sweet compliance, which declare unfeign'd

Union of mind, or in us both one soul;

Harmony to behold in wedded pair

More grateful than harmonious sound to the ear.

Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,

Sober, steadfast, and demure.

With even step and musing gait;

And looks commercing with the skies,

Thy wrapt soul sitting in thine eyes.

Innocence and virgin modesty

Her virtue, and the conscience of her worth,

That would be woo'd, and not unsought be won

Not obvious, not obtrusive, but retired

The more desirable.

Lady, thy care is fix'd, and zealously attends

To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light.

And hope that reaps not shame.

A creature …

… So lovely fair,

That what seem'd fair in all the world seem'd now

Mean, or in her summ'd up, in her contain'd.

All things from her air inspired

The spirit of love and amorous delight.

It is for homely features to keep home—

They had their name thence: coarse complexions

And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply

The sampler and to tease the housewife's wool.

With dispatchful looks in haste

She turns, on hospitable thoughts intent.

What choice to choose for delicacy best,

What order, so contrived, as not to mix

Tastes, not well join'd, inelegant, but bring

Taste after taste upheld with kindliest change.

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.

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!

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,

And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

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!

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

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.

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?

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!

Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow

Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth;

Her eyebrow's shape was like the aërial bow

Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth

Mounting, at times to a transparent glow,

As if her veins ran lightning.

Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,

Is woman's whole existence.

Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet;

Her very nod was not an inclination;

There was a self-will even in her small feet,

As though they were quite conscious of her station;—

But nature teaches more than power can spoil,

And when a strong although a strange sensation

Moves—female hearts are such a genial soil

For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation.

They naturally pour the "wine and oil,"

Samaritans in every situation.

The earth has nothing like a she epistle,

And hardly heaven—because it never ends.

I love the mystery of a female missal,

Which like a creed ne'er says all it intends.

Her chief resource was in her own high spirit,

Which judged mankind at their due estimation;

And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it:

Secure of admiration, its impression

Was faint, as of an every-day possession.

An eye's an eye, and whether black or blue,

Is no great matter, so 'tis in request.

'Tis nonsense to dispute about a hue,

The kindest may be taken as a test.

The fair sex should be always fair; and no man

Till thirty, should perceive there's a plain woman.

She was not violently lively, but

Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking;

Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half shut,

They put beholders in a tender taking.

The very first

Of human life must spring from woman's breast,

Your first small words are taught you from her lips,

Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs

Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing,

When men have shrunk from the ignoble care

Of watching the last hour of him who led them.

Soft, as the memory of buried love;

Pure, as the prayer which childhood wafts above

Was she.

She was a soft landscape of mild earth,

Where all was harmony, and calm and quiet,

Luxuriant, budding; cheerful without mirth,

Which, if not happiness, is more nigh it

Than are your mighty passions and so forth,

Which some call "the sublime": I wish they'd try it;

I've seen your stormy seas and stormy women,

And pity lovers rather more than seamen.

The tender blue of that large loving eye.

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd,

Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips;

To some she whispers, others speaks aloud;

To some she curtsies, and to some she dips;

Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd,

Her lover brings the lemonade,—she sips:

She then surveys, condemns, but pities still

Her dearest friends for being drest so ill.

One had false curls, another too much paint,

A third—where did she buy that frightful turban?

A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to faint,

A fifth's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban,

A sixth's white silk has got a yellow tint,

A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane,

And lo! an eighth appears,—I'll see no more!

For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score.

She was blooming still, had made the best

Of time, and time return'd the compliment,

And treated her genteely, so that, drest,

She look'd extremely well where'er she went;

A pretty woman is a welcome guest,

And her brow a frown had rarely bent;

Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter

Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her.

I think, with all due deference

To the fair single part of the creation,

That married ladies should preserve the preference

In tête-à-tête or general conversation—

Because they know the world, and are at ease,

And being natural, naturally please.

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellow'd to that tender light

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

I saw thee weep—the big bright tear

Came o'er that eye of blue:

And then methought it did appear

A violet dropping dew;

I saw thee smile—the sapphire's blaze

Beside thee ceased to shine,

It could not match the living rays

That fill'd that glance of thine.

As clouds from yonder sun receive

A deep and mellow die,

Which scarce the shade of coming eve

Can banish from the sky,

Those smiles unto the moodiest mind

Their own pure joy impart;

Their sunshine leaves a glow behind

That lightens o'er the heart.

I have observed your sex, once roused to wrath,

Are timidly vindictive to a pitch

Of perseverance, which I would not copy.

She was pensive more than melancholy,

And serious more than pensive, and serene,

It may be, more than either …

The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly

Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen,

That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall;

She never thought about herself at all.

A learned lady, famed

For every branch of every science known—

In every Christian language ever named,

With virtues equall'd by her wit alone.

She made the cleverest people quite ashamed,

And even the good with inward envy groan,

Finding themselves so very much exceeded

In their own way by all the things that she did.

'Tis pity learned virgins ever wed

With persons of no sort of education,

Or gentlemen who, though well-born and bred,

Grow tired of scientific conversation:

Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual,

Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all?

What a strange thing is man! and what a stranger

Is woman? what a whirlwind is her head,

And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger

Is all the rest about her! whether wed,

Or widow, maid, or mother, she can change her

Mind like the wind; whatever she has said

Or done, is light to what she'll say or do;—

The oldest thing on record, and yet new!

Round her she made an atmosphere of life,

The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes,

They were so soft and beautiful, and rife

With all we can imagine of the skies;—

Her overpowering presence made you feel,

It would not be idolatry to kneel.

Through her eye the Immortal shone;

Her eyes' dark charm 'twere vain to tell,

But gaze on that of the gazelle,

It will assist thy fancy well;

As large, as languishingly dark,

But soul beamed forth in every spark

That darted from beneath the lid,

Bright as the jewel of Giamschid,

Yea, soul!

So—this feminine farewell

Ends as such partings end, in no departure.

Her accents stole

On the dark visions of their soul,

And bade their mournful musings fly,

Like mist before the zephyr's sigh.

There was a soft and pensive grace,

A cast of thought upon her face,

That suited well the forehead high,

The eye-lash dark, and downcast eye;

The mild expression spoke a mind

In duty firm, composed, resign'd.

The rose, with faint and feeble streak

So slightly tinged the maiden's cheek,

That you had said her hue was pale;

But if she faced the summer-gale,

Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved,

Or heard the praise of those she loved,

Or when of interest was express'd

Aught that waked feeling in her breast,

That mantling blood in ready play

Rivall'd the blush of rising day.