For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): Elegy in a Country Churchyard. Stanza 22.

It must be so,—Plato, thou reasonest well!

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,

This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread and inward horror

Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul

Back on herself, and startles at destruction?

'T is the divinity that stirs within us;

'T is Heaven itself that points out an hereafter,

And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!

Joseph Addison (1672-1719): Cato. Act v. Sc. 1.

To all, to each, a fair good-night,

And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light.

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832): L' Envoy. To the Reader.

It must be so,—Plato, thou reasonest well!

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,

This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread and inward horror

Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul

Back on herself, and startles at destruction?

'T is the divinity that stirs within us;

'T is Heaven itself that points out an hereafter,

And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!

Joseph Addison (1672-1719): Cato. Act v. Sc. 1.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possest;

The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): On a Distant Prospect of Eton College. Stanza 5.

Next o'er his books his eyes begin to roll,

In pleasing memory of all he stole.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): The Dunciad. Book i. Line 127.

Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of York,

And all the clouds that loured upon our house

In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments,

Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,

Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front;

And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds

To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,

He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber

To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,

Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty

To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;

I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion,

Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,

Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time

Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,

And that so lamely and unfashionable

That dogs bark at me as I halt by them,—

Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,

Have no delight to pass away the time,

Unless to spy my shadow in the sun.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Richard III. Act i. Sc. 1.

The pleasing punishment that women bear.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): The Comedy of Errors. Act i. Sc. 1.

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!

Ah, fields beloved in vain!

Where once my careless childhood stray'd,

A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from ye blow

A momentary bliss bestow.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): On a Distant Prospect of Eton College. Stanza 2.

The devil hath power

To assume a pleasing shape.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Hamlet. Act ii. Sc. 2.