O! if in black my lady’s brows be deck’d, It mourns that painting and usurping hair Should ravish doters with a false aspect; And therefore is she born to make black fair.
Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper’d with Love’s sighs; O! then his lines would ravish savage ears, And plant in tyrants mild humility.
His eye begets occasion for his wit, For every object that the one doth catch The other turns to a mirth-moving jest, Which his fair tongue, conceit’s expositor, Delivers in such apt and gracious words That aged ears play truant at his tales, And younger hearings are quite ravished; So sweet and voluble is his discourse.
Our court, you know, is haunted With a refined traveller of Spain; A man in all the world’s new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain; One who the music of his own vain tongue Doth ravish like enchanting harmony; A man of complements, whom right and wrong Have chose as umpire of their mutiny: This child of fancy, that Armado hight, For interim to our studies shall relate, In high-born words, the worth of many a knight From tawny Spain lost in the world’s debate.
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The soldiers ravished the city.
"That girl been ravished," he said.
Ernest J. Gaines -- The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman