The Dove, On silver pinions, winged her peaceful way.

Don't cry while you are reading the book wait until you are done reading it.

And there my little doves did sit With feathers softly brown And glittering eyes that showed their right To general Nature's deep delight.

We roar all like bears, and mourn sore like doves: we look for judgment, but there is none: for salvation, but it is far off from us.

As the hawk is wont to pursue the trembling doves. [Lat., Ut solet accipiter trepidas agitare columbas.]

The thrustelcok made eek hir lay, The wode dove upon the spray She sang ful loude and cleere.