Swift.    

	The sweetest thing that ever grew
	Beside a human door.

Wordsworth.    

Sweets to the sweet; farewell.

Shakespeare.    

Tickell.    

	’Tis sweet to hear
	At midnight, on the blue and moonlight deep,
	The song and oar of Adria’s gondolier,
	By distance mellow’d, o’er the waters sweep;
	’Tis sweet to see the evening star appear;
	’Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep
	From leaf to leaf; ’tis sweet to view on high
	The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.
	Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes
	In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth,
	Purple and gushing; sweet are our escapes
	From civic revelry to rural mirth;
	Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps;
	Sweet to the father is his first born’s birth;
	Sweet is revenge—especially to women,
	Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.
	’Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog’s honest bark
	Bay deep-mouth’d welcome as we draw near home:
	’Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
	Our coming, and look brighter when we come:
	’Tis sweet to be awaken’d by the lark,
	Or lull’d by falling waters; sweet the hum
	Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds,
	The lisp of children and their earliest words.

Byron.