Reference > Quotations > Hoyt & Roberts, comps. > Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations
Hoyt & Roberts, comps.  Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations.  1922.
The children in Holland take pleasure in making
What the children in England take pleasure in breaking.
        Old Nursery Rhyme.
          My lovely living Boy,
My hope, my hap, my Love, my life, my joy.
        Du Bartas—Divine Weekes and Workes. Second Week, Fourth Day. Bk. II.
          ’Tis not a life,
’Tis but a piece of childhood thrown away.
        Beaumont and Fletcher—Philaster. Act V. Sc. 2. L. 15.
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
  Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,
  And that cannot stop their tears.
        E. B. Browning—The Cry of the Children.
          Women know
The way to rear up children (to be just);
They know a simple, merry, tender knack
Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes,
And stringing pretty words that make no sense,
And kissing full sense into empty words;
Which things are corals to cut life upon,
Although such trifles.
        E. B. Browning—Aurora Leigh. Bk. I. L. 48.
  [Witches] steal young children out of their cradles, ministerio dæmonum, and put deformed in their rooms, which we call changelings.
        Burton—Anatomy of Melancholy. Pt. I. Sect. II. Memb. 1. Subsect. 3.
Diogenes struck the father when the son swore.
        Burton—Anatomy of Melancholy. Pt. III. Sect. II. Memb. 6. Subsect. 5.
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.
        Byron—Beppo. St. 39.
A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,
And mischief-making monkey from his birth.
        Byron—Don Juan. Canto I. St. 25.
Pietas fundamentum est omnium virtutum.
  The dutifulness of children is the foundation of all virtues.
        Cicero—Oratio Pro Cnœo Plancio. XII.
  When I was a child, I spake as a child. I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
        I Corinthians. XIII. 11.
  Better to be driven out from among men than to be disliked of children.
        R. H. Dana—The Idle Man. Domestic Life.
They are idols of hearts and of households;
  They are angels of God in disguise;
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,
  His glory still gleams in their eyes;
Those truants from home and from Heaven
  They have made me more manly and mild;
And I know now how Jesus could liken
  The kingdom of God to a child.
        Chas. M. Dickinson—The Children.
When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
  And the school for the day is dismissed,
The little ones gather around me,
  To bid me good-night and be kissed;
Oh, the little white arms that encircle
  My neck in their tender embrace
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven,
  Shedding sunshine of love on my face.
        Chas. M. Dickinson—The Children.
  Childhood has no forebodings; but then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow.
        George Eliot—Mill on the Floss. Bk. I. Ch. IX.
Wynken, Blynken and Nod one night
  Sailed off in a wooden shoe—
Sailed on a river of crystal light
  Into a sea of dew.
        Eugene Field—Wynken, Blynken and Nod.
Teach your child to hold his tongue,
He’ll learn fast enough to speak.
        Benj. Franklin—Poor Richard Maxims. (1734).
By sports like these are all their cares beguil’d,
The sports of children satisfy the child.
        Goldsmith—The Traveller. L. 153.
Alas! regardless of their doom,
  The little victims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,
  Nor care beyond to-day.
        Gray—On a Distant Prospect of Eton College. St. 6.
But still when the mists of doubt prevail,
  And we lie becalmed by the shores of age,
We hear from the misty troubled shore
The voice of the children gone before.
  Drawing the soul to its anchorage.
        Bret Harte—A Greyport Legend. St. 6.
I think that saving a little child
  And bringing him to his own,
Is a derned sight better business
  Than loafing around the throne.
        John Hay—Little Breeches.
          Few sons attain the praise
Of their great sires and most their sires’ disgrace.
        Homer—Odyssey. Bk. II. L. 315. Pope’s trans.
  Nondum enim quisquam suum parentem ipse cognosvit.
  It is a wise child that knows his own father.
        Homer—Odyssey. Bk. I. 216 Trans. from the Greek by Clarke. Same idea in Euripides. Quoted by Eustath—Ad Hom. P. 1412. Aristotle—Rhetoric. Menander—Carthaginian. See Stobæus—Anthology. LXXVI. 7.
Another tumble! that’s his precious nose!
        Hood—Parental Ode to My Son.
Oh, when I was a tiny boy
My days and nights were full of joy.
  My mates were blithe and kind!
No wonder that I sometimes sigh
And dash the tear drop from my eye
  To cast a look behind!
        Hood—Retrospective Review.
          Children, ay, forsooth,
They bring their own love with them when they come,
But if they come not there is peace and rest;
The pretty lambs! and yet she cries for more:
Why, the world’s full of them, and so is heaven—
They are not rare.
        Jean Ingelow—Supper at the Mill.
Nil dictu fœdum visuque hæc limina tangat
Intra quæ puer est.
  Let nothing foul to either eye or ear reach those doors within which dwells a boy.
        Juvenal—Satires. XIV. 44.
  Les enfants n’ont ni passé ni avenir; et, ce qui ne nous arrive guère, ils jouissent du présent.
  Children have neither past nor future; and that which seldom happens to us, they rejoice in the present.
        La Bruyère—Les Caractères. XI.
Mais un fripon d’enfant (cet âge est sans pitié).
  But a rascal of a child (that age is without pity).
        La Fontaine—Fables. IX. 2.
A babe is fed with milk and praise.
        Lamb—The First Tooth. In Poetry for Children by Charles and Mary Lamb.
Oh, would I were a boy again,
  When life seemed formed of sunny years,
And all the heart then knew of pain
  Was wept away in transient tears!
        Mark Lemon—Oh, Would I Were a Boy Again.
There was a little girl,
And she had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead;
When she was good she was very, very good,
When she was bad she was horrid.
        Longfellow. See Blanche Roosevelt Tucker-Machetta—Home Life of Longfellow.
Ah! what would the world be to us
  If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
  Worse than the dark before.
        Longfellow—Children. St. 4.
Perhaps there lives some dreamy boy, untaught
In schools, some graduate of the field or street,
Who shall become a master of the art,
An admiral sailing the high seas of thought
Fearless and first, and steering with his fleet
For lands not yet laid down in any chart.
Who can foretell for what high cause
This darling of the gods was born?
        Andrew Marvell—Picture of T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers.
Each one could be a Jesus mild,
Each one has been a little child,
A little child with laughing look,
A lovely white unwritten book;
A book that God will take, my friend,
As each goes out at journey’s end.
        Masefield—Everlasting Mercy. St. 27.
And he who gives a child a treat
Makes Joy-bells ring in Heaven’s street,
And he who gives a child a home
Builds palaces in Kingdom come,
And she who gives a baby birth,
Brings Saviour Christ again to Earth.
        Masefield—Everlasting Mercy. St. 50.
Lord, give to men who are old and rougher
The things that little children suffer,
And let keep bright and undefiled
The young years of the little child.
        Masefield—Everlasting Mercy. St. 67.
  Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not.
        Matthew. II. 18; Jeremiah. XXXI. 15.
Ay, these young things lie safe in our hearts just so long
As their wings are in growing; and when these are strong
They break it, and farewell! the bird flies!
        Owen Meredith (Lord Lytton)—Lucile. Canto VI. Pt. II. St. 29.
The childhood shows the man,
As morning shows the day.
        MiltonParadise Regained. Bk. IV. L. 220.
As children gath’ring pebbles on the shore.
        MiltonParadise Regained. Bk. IV. L. 330.
Ah, il n’y a plus d’enfant.
  Ah, there are no children nowadays.
        Molière—Le Malade Imaginaire. II. 2.
  Parentes objurgatione digni sunt, qui nolunt liberos suos severa lege proficere.
  Parents deserve reproof when they refuse to benefit their children by severe discipline.
        Petronius Arbiter—Satyricon. IV.
The wildest colts make the best horses.
        Plutarch—Life of Themistocles.
Behold the child, by Nature’s kindly law,
Pleas’d with a rattle, tickled with a straw.
        Pope—Essay on Man. Ep. II. L. 275.
A wise son maketh a glad father.
        Proverbs. X. 1.
  Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old he will not depart from it.
        Proverbs. XXII. 6.
  Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.
        Proverbs. XXXI. 29.
  Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.
        Psalms. CXXVII. 5.
  Thy children like olive plants round about thy table.
        Psalms. CXXVIII. 3.
There is nothing more to say,
They have all gone away
From the house on the hill.
        Edwin A. Robinson—The House on the Hill.
Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say,
When the rich casket shone in bright array,
“These are my Jewels!” Well of such as he,
When Jesus spake, well might the language be,
“Suffer these little ones to come to me!”
        Samuel Rogers—Human Life. L. 202.
L’enfance est le sommeil de la raison.
  Childhood is the sleep of reason.
        Rousseau—Émile. Bk. II.
Glücklicher Säugling! dir ist ein unendlicher Raum noch die Wiege,
Werde Mann, und dir wird eng die unendliche Welt.
  Happy child! the cradle is still to thee a vast space; but when thou art a man the boundless world will be too small for thee.
        Schiller—Das Kind in der Wiege.
Wage du zu irren und zu träumen.
Hoher Sinn liegt oft im kind’schen Spiel.
  Dare to err and to dream. Deep meaning often lies in childish plays.
        Schiller—Theklo. St. 6.
          And children know,
Instinctive taught, the friend and foe.
        Scott—Lady of the Lake. Canto II. St. 14.
O lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrow’s cure!
        King John. Act III. Sc. 4. L. 103.
We have no such daughter, nor shall ever see
That face of her again. Therefore begone
Without our grace, our love, our benizon.
        King Lear. Act I. Sc. 1. L. 266.
Fathers that wear rags
  Do make their children blind;
But fathers that bear bags
  Shall see their children kind.
        King Lear. Act II. Sc. 4. L. 48.
It is a wise father that knows his own child.
        Merchant of Venice. Act II. Sc. 2. L. 80.
          Oh, ’tis a parlous boy;
Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable;
He’s all the mother’s from the top to toe.
        Richard III. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 154.
Your children were vexation to your youth,
But mine shall be a comfort to your age.
        Richard III. Act IV. Sc. 4. L. 305.

          Behold, my lords,
Although the print be little, the whole matter
And copy of the father, eye, nose, lip,
The trick of’s frown, his forehead, nay, the valley,
The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek; his smiles;
The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger.
        Winter’s Tale. Act II. Sc. 3. L. 98.
A little child born yesterday
A thing on mother’s milk and kisses fed.
        Shelley—Homer’s Hymn to Mercury. St. 69.
It is very nice to think
  The world is full of meat and drink
With little children saying grace
  In every Christian kind of place.
        Stevenson—Child’s Garden of Verses. A Thought.
In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
        Stevenson—Child’s Garden of Verses. Bed in Summer.
When I am grown to man’s estate
I shall be very proud and great
And tell the other girls and boys
Not to meddle with my toys.
        Stevenson—Child’s Garden of Verses. Looking Forward.
Every night my prayers I say,
And get my dinner every day,
And every day that I’ve been good,
I get an orange after food.
        Stevenson—Child’s Garden of Verses. System.
While here at home, in shining day,
We round the sunny garden play,
Each little Indian sleepy-head
Is being kissed and put to bed.
        Stevenson—Child’s Garden of Verses. The Sun’s Travels.
Children are the keys of Paradise,
They alone are good and wise,
  Because their thoughts, their very lives, are prayer.
        R. H. Stoddard—The Children’s Prayer.
If there is anything that will endure
The eye of God, because it still is pure,
It is the spirit of a little child,
Fresh from his hand, and therefore undefiled.
        R. H. Stoddard—The Children’s Prayer.
“Not a child: I call myself a boy,”
  Says my king, with accent stern yet mild;
Now nine years have brought him change of joy—
  “Not a child.”
        Swinburne—Not a Child. St. 1.
But still I dream that somewhere there must be
The spirit of a child that waits for me.
        Bayard Taylor—The Poet’s Journal. Third Evening.
        Nam qui mentiri, aut fallere insuerit patrem, aut
Audebit: tanto magis audebit cæteros.
Pudore et liberalitate liberos
Retinere satius esse credo, quam metu.
  For he who has acquired the habit of lying or deceiving his father, will do the same with less remorse to others. I believe that it is better to bind your children to you by a feeling of respect, and by gentleness, than by fear.
        Terence—Adelphi. I. 1. 30.
Ut quisque suum vult esse, ita est.
  As each one wishes his children to be, so they are.
        Terence—Adelphi. III. 3. 46.
Birds in their little nests agree:
And ’tis a shameful sight,
When children of one family
Fall out, and chide, and fight.
        Isaac Watts—Divine Songs. XVII.
In books, or work, or healthful play,
  Let my first years be past,
That I may give for every day
  Some good account at last.
        Isaac Watts—Against Idleness.
Oh, for boyhood’s time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
        Whittier—The Barefoot Boy. St. 3.
The sweetest roamer is a boy’s young heart.
        George E. Woodberry—Agathon.
The child is father of the man.
        WordsworthMy Heart Leaps Up.
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.
        WordsworthTo a Butterfly.
          A simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
        WordsworthWe Are Seven.
The booby father craves a booby son,
And by heaven’s blessing thinks himself undone.
        Young—Love of Fame. Satire II. L. 1.

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