Her face, oh call it fair, not pale!

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834): Christabel. Part ii.

To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep:

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heartache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to,—'t is a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub:

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause: there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover'd country from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action.

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

Two hands upon the breast,

And labour's done;

Two pale feet crossed in rest,

The race is won.

Dinah M Mulock (1826-1887): Now and Afterwards.

No pale gradations quench his ray,

No twilight dews his wrath allay.

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832): Rokeby. Canto vi. Stanza 21.

The glow-worm shows the matin to be near,

And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Hamlet. Act i. Sc. 5.

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.

Like a pale martyr in his shirt of fire.

Alexander Smith (1830-1867): A Life Drama. Sc. ii.

Shall I, wasting in despair,

Die because a woman's fair?

Or make pale my cheeks with care,

'Cause another's rosy are?

Be she fairer than the day,

Or the flowery meads in May,

If she be not so to me,

What care I how fair she be?

George Wither (1588-1667): The Shepherd's Resolution.

Fountain heads and pathless groves,

Places which pale passion loves.

John Fletcher (1576-1625): The Nice Valour. Act iii. Sc. 3.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?

Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail?

Prithee, why so pale?

Sir John Suckling (1609-1641): Song.

Here the free spirit of mankind, at length,

Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place

A limit to the giant's unchained strength,

Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?

William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878): The Ages. xxxiii.

Were you with these, my prince, you 'd soon forget

The pale, unripened beauties of the north.

Joseph Addison (1672-1719): Cato. Act i. Sc. 4.

The oracles are dumb,

No voice or hideous hum

Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.

Apollo from his shrine

Can no more divine,

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.

No nightly trance or breathed spell

Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

John Milton (1608-1674): Hymn on Christ's Nativity. Line 173.

By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap

To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon,

Or dive into the bottom of the deep,

Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,

And pluck up drowned honour by the locks.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry IV. Part I. Act i. Sc. 3.