Moore.    

Gray.    

	He sighed;—the next resource is the full moon,
	Where all sighs are deposited; and now
	It happen’d luckily, the chaste orb shone.

Byron.    

Petrarch.    

	Sped the soft intercourse from soul to soul
	And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.

Pope.    

	Sighs
	Which perfect Joy, perplexed for utterance,
	Stole from her sister Sorrow.

Tennyson.    

	But sighs subside, and tears (e’en widows’) shrink,
	Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow
	So narrow as to shame their wintry brink,
	Which threatens inundations deep and yellow!
	Such diff’rence do a few months make. You’d think
	Grief a rich field that never would lie fallow;
	No more it doth; its ploughs but change their boys,
	Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys.

Byron.    

	Yet sighes, deare sighes, indeede true friends you are
	That do not leave your left friend at the wurst,
	But, as you with my breast, I oft have nurst
	So, gratefull now, you waite upon my care.

Sir Philip Sidney.