If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know read more

If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

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.

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.

Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of children.

Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of children.

Happy he
With such a mother! faith in womankind
Beats with his blood, and trust in all read more

Happy he
With such a mother! faith in womankind
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high
Comes easy to him, and though he trip and fall,
He shall not blind his soul with clay.

The mother says to her daughter: Daughter bid thy daughter, to
her daughter, that her daughter's daughter is crying.
read more

The mother says to her daughter: Daughter bid thy daughter, to
her daughter, that her daughter's daughter is crying.
[Lat., Mater ait natae die natae filia natum
Ut moneat natae plangere filiolam.]

Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also,
and he praiseth her.

Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also,
and he praiseth her.

A woman's love
Is mighty, but a mother's heart is weak,
And by its weakness overcomes.

A woman's love
Is mighty, but a mother's heart is weak,
And by its weakness overcomes.

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.