Their heavenly harps a lower strain began, and in soft music mourn the fall of man. - John Dryden

I can enjoy her while she's kind;
But when she dances in the wind,
And shakes the wings and will not stay,
I puff the prostitute away: The little or the much she gave is quietly resign'd: Content with poverty, my soul I arm; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.

Dancing is the poetry of the foot.

And that one hunting, which the Devil design'd
For one fair female, lost him half the kind.