O fair undress, best dress! it checks no vein, But every flowing limb in pleasure drowns, And heightens ease with grace.

Distrust any enterprise that requires new clothes.

Her polish'd limbs, Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire; Beyond the pomp of dress; for Loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is, when unadorn'd the most.

While I deduce, From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings, The symphony of spring.

Cruel as death, and hungry at the grave.

'Tis silence all, And pleasing expectation.