Doct.      Not so sick, my lord,

As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,

That keep her from her rest.

  Macb.        Cure her of that.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd,

Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,

Raze out the written troubles of the brain,

And with some sweet oblivious antidote

Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff

Which weighs upon the heart?

  Doct.        Therein the patient

Must minister to himself.

  Macb.  Throw physic to the dogs: I 'll none of it.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Macbeth. Act v. Sc. 3.

That in the captain's but a choleric word

Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Measure for Measure. Act ii. Sc. 2.

I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,

I but know that I love thee whatever thou art.

Thomas Moore (1779-1852): Come, rest in this Bosom.

No further seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode

(There they alike in trembling hope repose),

The bosom of his Father and his God.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): The Epitaph.

Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of York,

And all the clouds that loured upon our house

In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments,

Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,

Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front;

And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds

To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,

He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber

To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,

Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty

To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;

I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion,

Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,

Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time

Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,

And that so lamely and unfashionable

That dogs bark at me as I halt by them,—

Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,

Have no delight to pass away the time,

Unless to spy my shadow in the sun.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Richard III. Act i. Sc. 1.

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day

Is crept into the bosom of the sea.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry VI. Part II. Act iv. Sc. 1.

Calm on the bosom of thy God,

Fair spirit, rest thee now!

John Keble (1792-1866): Siege of Valencia. Scene ix.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake,

The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,

And round his breast the ripples break

As down he bears before the gale.

James G. Percival (1795-1856): To Seneca Lake.

The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham's bosom.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Richard III. Act iv. Sc. 3.

Swell, bosom, with thy fraught,

For 't is of aspics' tongues!

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Othello. Act iii. Sc. 3.

One, two, and the third in your bosom.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Romeo and Juliet. Act ii. Sc. 4.

Leave her to heaven

And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,

To prick and sting her.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Hamlet. Act i. Sc. 5.

O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move

The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): The Progress of Poesy. I. 3, Line 16.

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young.

Thomas Campbell (1777-1844): The Soldier's Dream.

A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,

And greatly falling with a falling state.

While Cato gives his little senate laws,

What bosom beats not in his country's cause?

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Prologue to Mr. Addison's Cato.

A poore soule sat sighing under a sycamore tree;

Oh willow, willow, willow!

With his hand on his bosom, his head on his knee,

Oh willow, willow, willow!

Thomas Percy (1728-1811): Willow, willow, willow.

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,

To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom, is—to die.

Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774): The Hermit. On Woman. Chap. xxiv.

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift,

That no philosophy can lift.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Presentiments.