And wiped our eyes

Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): As You Like It. Act ii. Sc. 7.

There is a bird who by his coat,

And by the hoarseness of his note,

Might be supposed a crow.

William Cowper (1731-1800): The Jackdaw. (Translation from Vincent Bourne.)

The ornament of beauty is suspect,

A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Sonnet lxx.

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.