Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key,

With bated breath and whispering humbleness.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): The Merchant of Venice. Act i. Sc. 3.

There was silence deep as death,

And the boldest held his breath

For a time.

Thomas Campbell (1777-1844): Battle of the Baltic.

I am the very slave of circumstance

And impulse,—borne away with every breath!

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Sardanapalus. Act iv. Sc. 1.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): Elegy in a Country Churchyard. Stanza 11.

The morn was fair, the skies were clear,

No breath came o'er the sea.

Charles Jefferys (1807-1865): The Rose of Allandale.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,

Where wealth accumulates, and men decay.

Princes and lords may flourish or may fade,—

A breath can make them, as a breath has made;

But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,

When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.

Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774): The Deserted Village. Line 51.

O Proserpina,

For the flowers now, that frighted thou let'st fall

From Dis's waggon! daffodils,

That come before the swallow dares, and take

The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,

But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes

Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,

That die unmarried, ere they can behold

Bright Phoebus in his strength,—a malady

Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and

The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds,

The flower-de-luce being one.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): The Winter's Tale. Act iv. Sc. 4.

Me let the tender office long engage

To rock the cradle of reposing age;

With lenient arts extend a mother's breath,

Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death;

Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,

And keep awhile one parent from the sky.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 408.

Every gift of noble origin

Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): These Times strike Monied Worldlings.

To the last moment of his breath,

On hope the wretch relies;

And even the pang preceding death

Bids expectation rise.

Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774): The Captivity. Act ii.

There is no death! What seems so is transition;

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.

Henry W Longfellow (1807-1882): Resignation.

A simple child

That lightly draws its breath,

And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): We are Seven.

Your monument shall be my gentle verse,

Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,

And tongues to be your being shall rehearse

When all the breathers of this world are dead;

You still shall live—such virtue hath my pen—

Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Sonnet lxxxi.

My way of life

Is fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf;

And that which should accompany old age,

As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,

I must not look to have; but in their stead

Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath,

Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.

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

But oars alone can ne'er prevail

To reach the distant coast;

The breath of heaven must swell the sail,

Or all the toil is lost.

William Cowper (1731-1800): Human Frailty.

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad:

Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,

"An honest man's the noblest work of God."

Robert Burns (1759-1796): The Cotter's Saturday Night.

But so fair,

She takes the breath of men away

Who gaze upon her unaware.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1809-1861): Bianca among the Nightingales. xii.

With thee conversing I forget all time,

All seasons, and their change,—all please alike.

Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,

With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun

When first on this delightful land he spreads

His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,

Glist'ring with dew; fragrant the fertile earth

After soft showers; and sweet the coming on

Of grateful ev'ning mild; then silent night

With this her solemn bird and this fair moon,

And these the gems of heaven, her starry train:

But neither breath of morn when she ascends

With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun

On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower,

Glist'ring with dew, nor fragrance after showers,

Nor grateful ev'ning mild, nor silent night

With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon

Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book iv. Line 639.

One more unfortunate

Weary of breath,

Rashly importunate,

Gone to her death.

Thomas Hood (1798-1845): The Bridge of Sighs.

It sounds like stories from the land of spirits

If any man obtains that which he merits,

Or any merit that which he obtains.

  .   .   .   .   .   .   .

Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends!

Hath he not always treasures, always friends,

The good great man? Three treasures,—love and light,

And calm thoughts, regular as infants' breath;

And three firm friends, more sure than day and night,—

Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834): Complaint. Ed. 1852. The Good Great Man. Ed. 1893.

Who pants for glory finds but short repose:

A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Satires, Epistles, and Odes of Horace. Epistle i. Book ii. Line 300.

No, 't is slander,

Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue

Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath

Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie

All corners of the world.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Cymbeline. Act iii. Sc. 4.

The heaven's breath

Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze,

Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird

Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle:

Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed,

The air is delicate.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Macbeth. Act i. Sc. 6.

See my lips tremble and my eyeballs roll,

Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Eloisa to Abelard. Line 323.

This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,

May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Romeo and Juliet. Act ii. Sc. 2.

I am as a weed

Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam to sail

Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 2.

A breath thou art,

Servile to all the skyey influences.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Measure for Measure. Act iii. Sc. 1.

And you, brave Cobham! to the latest breath

Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Moral Essays. Epistle i. Line 262.

One more unfortunate

Weary of breath,

Rashly importunate,

Gone to her death.

Thomas Hood (1798-1845): The Bridge of Sighs.

When the good man yields his breath

(For the good man never dies).

James Montgomery (1771-1854): The Wanderer of Switzerland. Part v.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set; but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

John Keble (1792-1866): The Hour of Death.