Bring me to the test,

And I the matter will re-word; which madness

Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace,

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul.

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

Sweet Phosphor, bring the day

Whose conquering ray

May chase these fogs;

Sweet Phosphor, bring the day!

Sweet Phosphor, bring the day!

Light will repay

The wrongs of night;

Sweet Phosphor, bring the day!

Robert Herrick (1591-1674): Emblems. Book i. Emblem 14.

Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes

That on the green turf suck the honied showers,

And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,

The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet,

The glowing violet,

The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine,

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,

And every flower that sad embroidery wears.

John Milton (1608-1674): Lycidas. Line 139.

Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish;

Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.

Thomas Moore (1779-1852): Come, ye Disconsolate.