A sweet attractive kinde of grace,

A full assurance given by lookes,

Continuall comfort in a face

The lineaments of Gospell bookes.

Mathew Roydon (Circa 1586): An Elegie; or Friend's Passion for his Astrophill.

Full fathom five thy father lies;

Of his bones are coral made;

Those are pearls that were his eyes:

Nothing of him that doth fade

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): The Tempest. Act i. Sc. 2.

He that had neyther been kith nor kin

Might have seen a full fayre sight.

Thomas Percy (1728-1811): Guy of Gisborne.

In many ways doth the full heart reveal

The presence of the love it would conceal.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834): Motto to Poems written in Later Life.

Full little knowest thou that hast not tride,

What hell it is in suing long to bide:

To loose good dayes, that might be better spent;

To wast long nights in pensive discontent;

To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;

To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow.

  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

To fret thy soule with crosses and with cares;

To eate thy heart through comfortlesse dispaires;

To fawne, to crowche, to waite, to ride, to ronne,

To spend, to give, to want, to be undonne.

Unhappie wight, borne to desastrous end,

That doth his life in so long tendance spend!

Edmund Spenser (1553-1599): Mother Hubberds Tale. Line 895.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): Elegy in a Country Churchyard. Stanza 14.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): Elegy in a Country Churchyard. Stanza 14.

Let us weep in our darkness, but weep not for him!

Not for him who, departing, leaves millions in tears!

Not for him who has died full of honor and years!

Not for him who ascended Fame's ladder so high

From the round at the top he has stepped to the sky.

Nathaniel P Willis (1817-1867): The Death of Harrison.

The idea of her life shall sweetly creep

Into his study of imagination,

And every lovely organ of her life,

Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit,

More moving-delicate and full of life

Into the eye and prospect of his soul.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Much Ado about Nothing. Act iv. Sc. 1.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

To the last syllable of recorded time,

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Macbeth. Act v. Sc. 5.

All plumed like estridges that with the wind

Baited like eagles having lately bathed;

Glittering in golden coats, like images;

As full of spirit as the month of May,

And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry IV. Part I. Act iv. Sc. 1.

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players.

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard;

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

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

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,

A box where sweets compacted lie.

George Herbert (1593-1632): Virtue.

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players.

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard;

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

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

Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join

The varying verse, the full resounding line,

The long majestic march, and energy divine.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Satires, Epistles, and Odes of Horace. Epistle i. Book ii. Line 267.

The Lord descended from above

And bow'd the heavens high;

And underneath his feet he cast

The darkness of the sky.

On cherubs and on cherubims

Full royally he rode;

And on the wings of all the winds

Came flying all abroad.

Thomas Sternhold (Circa 1549): A Metrical Version of Psalm civ.

Serenely full, the epicure would say,

Fate cannot harm me,—I have dined to-day.

Sydney Smith (1769-1845): Recipe for Salad. P. 374.

Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace

The day's disasters in his morning face;

Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;

Full well the busy whisper circling round

Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd.

Yet was he kind, or if severe in aught,

The love he bore to learning was in fault;

The village all declar'd how much he knew,

'T was certain he could write and cipher too.

Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774): The Deserted Village. Line 199.

Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace

The day's disasters in his morning face;

Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;

Full well the busy whisper circling round

Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd.

Yet was he kind, or if severe in aught,

The love he bore to learning was in fault;

The village all declar'd how much he knew,

'T was certain he could write and cipher too.

Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774): The Deserted Village. Line 199.

Oh, could I flow like thee, and make thy stream

My great example, as it is my theme!

Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull;

Strong without rage; without o'erflowing, full.

Sir John Denham (1615-1668): Cooper's Hill. Line 189.

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.

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,

Flushing his brow.

John Keats (1795-1821): The Eve of St. Agnes. Stanza 16.

Anger is like

A full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way,

Self-mettle tires him.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry VIII. Act i. Sc. 1.

How beautiful is night!

A dewy freshness fills the silent air;

No mist obscures; nor cloud, or speck, nor stain,

Breaks the serene of heaven:

In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine

Rolls through the dark blue depths;

Beneath her steady ray

The desert circle spreads

Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.

How beautiful is night!

Robert Southey (1774-1843): Thalaba. Book i. Stanza 1.