The modest front of this small floor,

Believe me, reader, can say more

Than many a braver marble can,—

"Here lies a truly honest man!"

Richard Crashaw (Circa 1616-1650): Epitaph upon Mr. Ashton.

The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,

The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door;

The chest, contriv'd a double debt to pay,—

A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day.

Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774): The Deserted Village. Line 227.

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!

Here we will sit and let the sounds of music

Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night

Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st

But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins.

Such harmony is in immortal souls;

But whilst this muddy vesture of decay

Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): The Merchant of Venice. Act v. Sc. 1.