Men blush less for their crimes than for their weaknesses and
vanity.
[Fr., Les hommes rougissent moins de read more

Men blush less for their crimes than for their weaknesses and
vanity.
[Fr., Les hommes rougissent moins de leur crimes que de leurs
faiblesses et de leur vanite.]

Blushed like the waves of hell.

Blushed like the waves of hell.

So sweet the blush of bashfulness,
E'en pity scarce can wish it less!

So sweet the blush of bashfulness,
E'en pity scarce can wish it less!

I ask, that I might waken reverence,
And bid the cheek be ready with a blush
Modest read more

I ask, that I might waken reverence,
And bid the cheek be ready with a blush
Modest as morning when she coldly eyes
The youthful Phoebus,
Which is that god in office, guiding men?

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.

I pity bashful men, who feel the pain
Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain,
And bear the read more

I pity bashful men, who feel the pain
Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain,
And bear the marks upon a blushing face,
OF needless shame, and self-impos'd disgrace.

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.

Yet will she blush, here be it said,
To bear her secrets so bewrayed.

Yet will she blush, here be it said,
To bear her secrets so bewrayed.

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.