Mood Invoking Power Perfumes Fragrances

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Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
—William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

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To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I ey’d,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summer’s pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumns turn’d
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah, yet doth beauty, like a dial hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv’d!
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv’d;
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:
Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.
—William Shakespeare (1564–1616)