Man but a rush against Othello's breast,

And he retires.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Othello. Act v. Sc. 2.

Arm th' obdur'd breast

With stubborn patience as with triple steel.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book ii. Line 568.

As full-blown poppies, overcharg'd with rain,

Decline the head, and drooping kiss the plain,—

So sinks the youth; his beauteous head, deprest

Beneath his helmet, drops upon his breast.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): The Iliad of Homer. Book viii. Line 371.

This child is not mine as the first was;

I cannot sing it to rest;

I cannot lift it up fatherly,

And bless it upon my breast.

Yet it lies in my little one's cradle,

And sits in my little one's chair,

And the light of the heaven she's gone to

Transfigures its golden hair.

James Russell Lowell (1819-1891): The Changeling.

A word in season spoken

May calm the troubled breast.

Charles Jefferys (1807-1865): A Word in Season.

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore

Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): The Rape of the Lock. Canto ii. Line 7.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast:

Man never is, but always to be blest.

The soul, uneasy and confined from home,

Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Essay on Man. Epistle i. Line 95.

Egeria! sweet creation of some heart

Which found no mortal resting-place so fair

As thine ideal breast.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 115.

Mightier far

Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway

Of magic potent over sun and star,

Is Love, though oft to agony distrest,

And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's breast.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Laodamia.

Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail

Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt,

Dispraise, or blame,—nothing but well and fair,

And what may quiet us in a death so noble.

John Milton (1608-1674): Samson Agonistes. Line 1721.

The yielding marble of her snowy breast.

Edmund Waller (1605-1687): On a Lady passing through a Crowd of People.

And hence one master-passion in the breast,

Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Essay on Man. Epistle ii. Line 131.

You shall not pile, with servile toil,

Your monuments upon my breast,

Nor yet within the common soil

Lay down the wreck of power to rest,

Where man can boast that he has trod

On him that was "the scourge of God."

Edward Everett (1794-1865): Alaric the Visigoth.

So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow

For others' good, or melt at others' woe.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): To the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady. Line 45.

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore

Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): The Rape of the Lock. Canto ii. Line 7.

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,—

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774): The Deserted Village. Line 189.

Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,

To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.

William Congreve (1670-1729): The Mourning Bride. Act i. Sc. 1.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possest;

The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): On a Distant Prospect of Eton College. Stanza 5.

Daughter of Jove, relentless power,

Thou tamer of the human breast,

Whose iron scourge and tort'ring hour

The bad affright, afflict the best!

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): Hymn to Adversity.

Egeria! sweet creation of some heart

Which found no mortal resting-place so fair

As thine ideal breast.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 115.

Drink ye to her that each loves best!

And if you nurse a flame

That's told but to her mutual breast,

We will not ask her name.

Thomas Campbell (1777-1844): Drink ye to Her.

If goodness lead him not, yet weariness

May toss him to my breast.

George Herbert (1593-1632): The Pulley.

Truth hath a quiet breast.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Richard II. Act i. Sc. 3.

Two hands upon the breast,

And labour's done;

Two pale feet crossed in rest,

The race is won.

Dinah M Mulock (1826-1887): Now and Afterwards.

Love seldom haunts the breast where learning lies,

And Venus sets ere Mercury can rise.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): The Wife of Bath. Her Prologue. Line 369.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields withstood,

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): Elegy in a Country Churchyard. Stanza 15.

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-to ruffled, and sometimes impair'd.

He that has light within his own clear breast

May sit i' th' centre and enjoy bright day;

But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts

Benighted walks under the midday sun.

John Milton (1608-1674): Comus. Line 373.

If solid happiness we prize,

Within our breast this jewel lies,

And they are fools who roam.

The world has nothing to bestow;

From our own selves our joys must flow,

And that dear hut, our home.

Nathaniel Cotton (1707-1788): The Fireside. Stanza 3.

She stood breast-high amid the corn

Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,

Like the sweetheart of the sun,

Who many a glowing kiss had won.

Thomas Hood (1798-1845): Ruth.