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• From the crown of his head to the sole of his foot he is all mirth
  he has twice or thrice cut Cupid's bowstring, and the little hangman dare not shoot at him...
• Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And welt'ring in his blood
  Deserted, at his utmost need, By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth expos'd he lies, With not a friend to close his eyes....
• He rais'd a mortal to the skies, She drew an angel down.
  -- John Dryden (1631-1700) -- Alexander's Feast, Line 169...
• Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures.
  War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour but an empty bubble...
• Thrice he assay'd, and thrice in spite of scorn Tears, such as angels weep, burst forth.
  -- John Milton (1608-1674) -- Paradise Lost, Book i, Line 619...
• Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again. -- John Dryden (1631-1700) -- Alexander's Feast, Line 120
• And all should cry, Beware! Beware! / His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
  Weave a circle round him thrice, / And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honeydew hath fed, / And drunk the milk of Paradise....
• And all to leave what with his toil he won To that unfeather'd two-legged thing, a son.
  -- John Dryden (1631-1700) -- Absalom and Achitophel, Part i, Line 169...
• On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows Assail the stern rock
  and the loud tempests rave, The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows, Like fond weeping mourners, lean over his grave....