Quotes About Beauty

Die of a rose in aromatic pain?

Charm strikes the sight, but merit wins the soul.

Consult the genius of the place in all; That tells the waters or to rise, or fall; Or helps th' ambitious hill the heav'ns to scale, Or scoops in circling theatres the vale; Calls in the country, catches opening glades, Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades, Now breaks, or now directs, th' intending lines; Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.

How vain are all these Glories, all our Pains, Unless good Sense preserve what Beauty gains: That Men may say, when we the Front-box grace, Behold the first in Virtue, as in Face!

Let Sporus tremble — "What? that thing of silk, Sporus, that mere white curd of ass's milk? Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel? Who breaks a Butterfly upon a Wheel?" Yet let me flap this Bug with gilded wings, This painted Child of Dirt that stinks and stings; Whose Buzz the Witty and the Fair annoys, Yet Wit ne'er tastes, and Beauty ne'er enjoys

A perfect Judge will read each work of Wit With the same spirit that its author writ; Survey the WHOLE, nor seek slight faults to find Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind; .... In wit, as nature, what effects our hearts Is not th'exactness of peculiar parts; 'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, But the joint force and full result of all.

Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, But the joint force and full result of all.

Celia" Celia, we know, is sixty-five, Yet Celia's face is seventeen; Thus winter in her breast must live, While summer in her face is seen. How cruel Celia's fate, who hence Our heart's devotion cannot try; Too pretty for our reverence, Too ancient for our gallantry!

What then remains, but well our power to use, And keep good humour still whate'er we lose? And trust me, dear, good humour can prevail, When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail. Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul

So when the faithful pencil has design'd Some bright idea of the master's mind, Where a new world leaps out at his command, And ready Nature waits upon his hand; When the ripe colours soften and unite, And sweetly melt into just shade and light; When mellowing years their full perfection give, And each bold figure just begins to live, The treacherous colours the fair art betray, And all the bright creation fades away!

But now secure the painted vessel glides,   The sun-beams trembling on the floating tides:   While melting music steals upon the sky,   And soften'd sounds along the waters die; 50   Smooth flow the waves, the Zephyrs gently play,   Belinda smil'd, and all the world was gay.

For who can move when fair Belinda fails?   Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain, 5   While Anna begg'd and Dido rag'd in vain.   Then grave Clarissa graceful wav'd her fan;   Silence ensu'd, and thus the nymph began.

True wit is Nature to advantage dress'd, What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd.

This Nymph, to the destruction of mankind,   Nourish'd two Locks, which graceful hung behind 20   In equal curls, and well conspir'd to deck   With shining ringlets the smooth iv'ry neck.

To me what Nature has in charms denied, Is well by Wit's more lasting flames supplied.

Not louder shrieks to pitying heav'n are cast,   When husbands, or when lapdogs breathe their last;   Or when rich China vessels fall'n from high,   In glitt'ring dust and painted fragments lie! 160

All nature is but art, unknown to thee.

The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare?   For this your locks in paper durance bound,   For this with tort'ring irons wreath'd around? 100   For this with fillets strain'd your tender head,   And bravely bore the double loads of lead?

Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart

How shall I begin to deplore the deeds of my miserable life? What beginning shall I make, O Christ, to this lament? But since Thou art compassionate, grant me remission of my trespasses." "Like as the potter gives life to his clay, Thou hast bestowed upon me Flesh and bones, breath and life; Today, O my Creator, my Redeemer and My Judge, Receive me a penitent..." "I have lost my first made beauty and dignity, And now I lie naked and covered with shame...

How long will this last, this delicious feeling of being alive, of having penetrated the veil which hides beauty and the wonders of celestial vistas? It doesn't matter, as there can be nothing but gratitude for even a glimpse of what exists for those who can become open to it.

It was his nature to blossom into song, as it is a tree's to leaf itself in April.