From every blush that kindles in thy cheeks,
Ten thousand little loves and graces spring
To revel read more

From every blush that kindles in thy cheeks,
Ten thousand little loves and graces spring
To revel in the roses.

His kindled duty kindled her mistrust,
That two red fires in both faces blazed.
She thought he read more

His kindled duty kindled her mistrust,
That two red fires in both faces blazed.
She thought he blushed as knowing Tarquin's lust,
And, blushing with him, wistly on him gazed;
Her earnest eye did make him more amazed.

An Arab, by his earnest gaze,
Has clothed a lovely maid with blushes;
A smile within his read more

An Arab, by his earnest gaze,
Has clothed a lovely maid with blushes;
A smile within his eyelids plays
And into words his longing gushes.

Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive,
Half wishing they were dead to save the shame.
The read more

Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive,
Half wishing they were dead to save the shame.
The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow;
They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats,
And flare up bodily, wings and all.

Pure friendship's well-feigned blush.

Pure friendship's well-feigned blush.

Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite,
Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes,
That banish what read more

Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite,
Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes,
That banish what they sue for: redeem thy brother
By yielding up thy body to my will,
Or else he must not only die the death,
But thy unkindess shall his death draw out
To ling'ring sufferance.

Blushed like the waves of hell.

Blushed like the waves of hell.

Such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Where now I have no one to blush with me,
To cross their arms and hang their heads with read more

Where now I have no one to blush with me,
To cross their arms and hang their heads with mine,
To mask their brows and hide their infamy;
But I alone, alone must sit and pine,
Seasoning the earth with show'rs of silver brine,
Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans,
Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans.