Eyne

Lashed into foam, behind them roars the brine; / now, gliding onward to the beach, ere long / they gain the fields, and rolling bloodshot eyne / that blaze with fire, the monsters move along, / and lick their hissing jaws, and dart a flickering tongue.

To vvhat, my loue, ſhall I compare thine eyne? / Chriſtall is muddy.

A night as dense as honey, peaceful, dreamy and enticing / Bringing to thine eyne tears of deep emotion / The weary she-parrot slumbers / As does the fading narcissus; […]