The pretty and sweet manner of it forced
Those waters from me which I would have stopped;
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The pretty and sweet manner of it forced
Those waters from me which I would have stopped;
But I had not so much of man in me,
And all my mother came into mine eyes
And gave me up to tears.

All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No
man does. That is his.

All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No
man does. That is his.

And Adam called his wife's name Eve; because she was the mother
of all living.

And Adam called his wife's name Eve; because she was the mother
of all living.

One woman will brag about her children, while another complains about hers; they could probably swap children without swapping tunes

One woman will brag about her children, while another complains about hers; they could probably swap children without swapping tunes

When a woman is twenty, a child deforms her; when she is thirty, he preserves her; and when forty, he read more

When a woman is twenty, a child deforms her; when she is thirty, he preserves her; and when forty, he makes her young again.

Art is the child of Nature; yes, her darling child, in whom we trace the features of the mother's face, read more

Art is the child of Nature; yes, her darling child, in whom we trace the features of the mother's face, her aspect and her attitude.

There is none,
In all this cold and hollow world, no fount
Of deep, strong, deathless love, read more

There is none,
In all this cold and hollow world, no fount
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within
A mother's heart.

That it should come to this,
But two months dead, nay, not so much, not two,
So read more

That it should come to this,
But two months dead, nay, not so much, not two,
So excellent a king, that was to this
Hyperion to a satyr, so loving to my mother
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth,
Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on, and yet within a month--
Let me not think on't; frailty, thy name is woman--
A little month, or ere those shoes were old
With which she followed my poor father's body
Like Niobe, all tears, why she, even she--
O God, a beast that wants discourse of reason
Would have mourned longer--married with my uncle,
My father's brother, but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules.

At the cross, her station keeping,
Stood the mournful mother, weeping,
Where He hung, the dying Lord.
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At the cross, her station keeping,
Stood the mournful mother, weeping,
Where He hung, the dying Lord.
[Lat., Stabat mater, dolorosa
Juxta crucem lacrymosa
Que pendebat Filius.]