And say to mothers what a holy charge
Is theirs--with what a kingly power their love
Might read more

And say to mothers what a holy charge
Is theirs--with what a kingly power their love
Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind.

The mother loves her child most divinely, not when she surrounds him with comfort and anticipates his wants, but when read more

The mother loves her child most divinely, not when she surrounds him with comfort and anticipates his wants, but when she resolutely holds him to the highest standards and is content with nothing less than his best.

Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the read more

Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well/
My mother.

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.

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.]

A girl is Innocence playing in the mud, Beauty standing on its head, and Motherhood dragging a doll by the read more

A girl is Innocence playing in the mud, Beauty standing on its head, and Motherhood dragging a doll by the foot

The mother said to her daughter, "Daughter, bid thy daughter tell
her daughter that her daughter's daughter hath a read more

The mother said to her daughter, "Daughter, bid thy daughter tell
her daughter that her daughter's daughter hath a daughter."

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.

The bearing and the training of a child
Is woman's wisdom.

The bearing and the training of a child
Is woman's wisdom.