Quotes
Quotes about Mother
We search the world for truth; we cull The good, the pure, the beautiful, From all old flower fields of the soul; And, weary seeker of the best, We come back laden from out quest, To find that all the sages said Is in the Book our mothers read.
If Poverty is the Mother of Crimes, want of Sense is the Father.
A child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman. -Love's Labour 's Lost. Act i. Sc. 1.
That would hang us, every mother's son. -A Midsummer Night's Dream. Act i. Sc. 2.
Thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother. -The Merchant of Venice. Act iii. Sc. 5.
Silence is the mother of Truth.
A happier lot were mine, If I must lose thee, to go down to earth, For I shall have no hope when thou art gone,-- Nothing but sorrow. Father have I none, And no dear mother.
With those who don't give a damn about baseball, I can only sympathize. I do not resent them. I am even willing to concede that many of them are physically clean, good to their mothers and in favor of world peace. But while the game is on, I can't think of anything to say to them.
What is both surprising and delightful is that spectators are allowed, and even expected, to join in the vocal part of the game... There is no reason why the field should not try to put the batsman off his stroke at the critical moment by neatly timed disparagements of his wife's fidelity and his mother's respectability.
I owe a lot to my parents, especially my mother and father
This is really a lovely horse, I once rode her mother.
Behind every successful man lurks a truly amazed ex-mother-in-law.
Oh, father's gone to market-town, he was up before the day, And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay, And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill, While mother from the kitchen door is calling with a will, "Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly?"
Superstition is to religion what astrology is to astronomy; the mad daughter of a wise mother.
My mother would say it is literally ghost writers who come to me (Tan is the author of what became The Joy Luck Club).
Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth, With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks, Turn all her mother's pains and benefits To laughter and contempt, that she may feel How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless child.
Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West, From North and South, come the pilgrim and guest, When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection restored, When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before. What moistens the lips and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin pie?
My playground was the theatre. I'd sit and watch my mother pretend for a living. As a young girl, that's pretty seductive.
Backward, flow backward, O full tide of years! I am so weary of toil and of tears, Toil without recompense--tears all in vain, Take them and give me my childhood again. I have grown weary of dust and decay, Weary of sowing for others to reap; Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.
Backward, turn backward, then time in your flight; Make me a child again just for tonight. Mother, come back from the echoeless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore.
St. Leon raised his kindling eye, And lifts the sparkling cup on high; "I drink to one," he said, "Whose image never may depart, Deep graven on this grateful heart, Till memory be dead." . . . . St. Leon paused, as if he would Not breathe her name in careless mood Thus lightly to another; Then bent his noble head, as though To give the word the reverence due, And gently said, "My mother!"
We are a rebellious nation. Our whole history is treason; our blood was attained before we were born; our creeds were infidelity to the mother church; our constitution treason to our fatherland.
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man that function Is smothered in surmise and nothing is But what is not.
I attribute my success in life to the moral, intellectual and physical education which I received from my mother.
Sameness is the mother of disgust, variety the cure.
