And rustic life and poverty

Grow beautiful beneath his touch.

Thomas Campbell (1777-1844): Ode to the Memory of Burns.

He either fears his fate too much,

Or his deserts are small,

That dares not put it to the touch

To gain or lose it all.

Marquis Of Montrose (1612-1650): My Dear and only Love.

Philips, whose touch harmonious could remove

The pangs of guilty power and hapless love!

Rest here, distressed by poverty no more;

Here find that calm thou gav'st so oft before;

Sleep undisturb'd within this peaceful shrine,

Till angels wake thee with a note like thine!

Samuel Johnson (1709-1784): Epitaph on Claudius Philips, the Musician.

As aromatic plants bestow

No spicy fragrance while they grow;

But crush'd or trodden to the ground,

Diffuse their balmy sweets around.

Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774): The Captivity. Act i.

But oh for the touch of a vanish'd hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!

Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892): Break, break, break.

Him thus intent Ithuriel with his spear

Touch'd lightly; for no falsehood can endure

Touch of celestial temper.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book iv. Line 810.

Nor peace nor ease the heart can know

Which, like the needle true,

Turns at the touch of joy or woe,

But turning, trembles too.

Mrs Greville (Circa 1793): A Prayer for Indifference.

Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are!

From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,

That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war,

Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

Thomas Moore (1779-1852): On the Entry of the Austrians into Naples, 1821.

One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Troilus and Cressida. Act iii. Sc. 3.

Some novel power

Sprang up forever at a touch,

And hope could never hope too much

In watching thee from hour to hour.

Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892): In Memoriam. cxii. Stanza 3.

Satire should, like a polished razor keen,

Wound with a touch that's scarcely felt or seen.

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1690-1762): To the Imitator of the First Satire of Horace. Book ii.

Go, Soul, the body's guest,

Upon a thankless arrant:

Fear not to touch the best,

The truth shall be thy warrant:

Go, since I needs must die,

And give the world the lie.

Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618): The Lie.

The soul of music slumbers in the shell

Till waked and kindled by the master's spell;

And feeling hearts, touch them but rightly, pour

A thousand melodies unheard before!

Samuel Rogers (1763-1855): Human Life.

Touch us gently, Time!

Let us glide adown thy stream

Gently,—as we sometimes glide

Through a quiet dream.

Bryan W Procter (1787-1874): Touch us gently, Time.

Our souls sit close and silently within,

And their own web from their own entrails spin;

And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such,

That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.

John Dryden (1631-1701): Mariage à la Mode. Act ii. Sc. 1.

As when, O lady mine!

With chiselled touch

The stone unhewn and cold

Becomes a living mould.

The more the marble wastes,

The more the statue grows.

Michelangelo (1474-1564): Sonnet.

Satire should, like a polished razor keen,

Wound with a touch that's scarcely felt or seen.

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1690-1762): To the Imitator of the First Satire of Horace. Book ii.