And smooth as monumental alabaster.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Othello. Act v. Sc. 2.

For aught that I could ever read,

Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): A Midsummer Night's Dream. Act i. Sc. 1.

Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry VI. Part II. Act iii. Sc. 1.

Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows,

And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;

But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,

The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar.

When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,

The line too labours, and the words move slow:

Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,

Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Essay on Criticism. Part ii. Line 166.

Me let the tender office long engage

To rock the cradle of reposing age;

With lenient arts extend a mother's breath,

Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death;

Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,

And keep awhile one parent from the sky.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 408.

To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,

To throw a perfume on the violet,

To smooth the ice, or add another hue

Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light

To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,

Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King John. Act iv. Sc. 2.

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.

I have seen

A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract

Of inland ground, applying to his ear

The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell,

To which, in silence hushed, his very soul

Listened intensely; and his countenance soon

Brightened with joy, for from within were heard

Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed

Mysterious union with his native sea.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): The Excursion. Book iv.

I walk unseen

On the dry smooth-shaven green,

To behold the wandering moon

Riding near her highest noon,

Like one that had been led astray

Through the heav'n's wide pathless way;

And oft, as if her head she bow'd,

Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

John Milton (1608-1674): Il Penseroso. Line 65.