Falcons

The falcon and the dove sit there together,And th' one of them doth prune the other's feather.

— Falcons

The red rose whispers of passion,And the white rose is a dove.

— Falcons

Say, will the falcon, stooping from above,Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings?

— Falcons

Our hopes, like towering falcons, aimIs from afar to view the flight.

— Falcons

A falcon, tow'ring in her pride of place,Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd.

— Falcons

My falcon now is sharp, and passing empty;For then she never looks upon her lure.

— Falcons