Quotes
Quotes about Mother
As when in Cymbrian plaine
An heard of bulles, whom kindly rage doth sting,
Doe for the milky mothers want complaine,
And fill the fieldes with troublous bellowing.
For all that Nature by her mother-wit
Could frame in earth.
Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses: Cupid paid.
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows:
Loses them too. Then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple on his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes:
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?
Sacred religion! mother of form and fear.
Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not "seems."
'T is not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black.
Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother,
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly.
Bring me to the test,
And I the matter will re-word; which madness
Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace,
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul.
Some jay of Italy,
Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him:
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion.
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime.
A child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman.
That would hang us, every mother's son.
Thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother.
Underneath this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,--
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.
Death, ere thou hast slain another,
Learn'd and fair and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.
For "ignorance is the mother of devotion," as all the world knows.
Thou wilt scarce be a man before thy mother.
How gladly would I meet
Mortality my sentence, and be earth
Insensible! how glad would lay me down
As in my mother's lap!
So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop
Into thy mother's lap.
Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts
And eloquence.
Your ignorance is the mother of your devotion to me.
Necessity, the mother of invention.
Me let the tender office long engage
To rock the cradle of reposing age;
With lenient arts extend a mother's breath,
Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death;
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,
And keep awhile one parent from the sky.
Yet while my Hector still survives, I see
My father, mother, brethren, all, in thee.
Where yet was ever found a mother
Who 'd give her booby for another?
The meek-ey'd Morn appears, mother of dews.
Early and provident fear is the mother of safety.
