'Twas a hand White, delicate, dimpled, warm, languid, and bland. The hand of a woman is often, in youth, Somewhat rough, somewhat red, somewhat graceless in truth; Does its beauty refine, as its pulses grow calm, Or as sorrow has crossed the life line in the palm?
Owen Meredith (Lord Lytton), Lucile (1860), Part I, Canto III, Stanza 18.
A night of tears! For the gusty rain had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; and the moon look'd forth, as tho' in pain, with her face all white and wet.Owen Meredith
Oh, better no doubt is a dinner of herbs, When season'd by love, which no rancour disturbs And sweeten'd by all that is sweetest in life Than turbot, bisque, ortolans, eaten in strife! But if, out of humour, and hungry, alone A man should sit down to dinner, each one Of the dishes of which the cook chooses to spoil With a horrible mixture of garlic and oil, The chances are ten against one, I must own, He gets up as ill-tempered as when he sat down.Owen Meredith