|Hoyt & Roberts, comps. Hoyts New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations. 1922.|
|And there my little doves did sit|
With feathers softly brown
And glittering eyes that showed their right
To general Natures deep delight.
E. B. BrowningMy Doves.
|The thrustelcok made eek hir lay,|
The wode dove upon the spray
She sang ful loude and cleere.
ChaucerThe Rime of Sir Thopas.
|As when the dove returning bore the mark|
Of earth restored to the long labouring ark;
The relics of mankind, secure at rest,
Oped every window to receive the guest,
And the fair bearer of the message blessd.
DrydenTo Her Grace of Ormond. L. 70.
| Listen, sweet Dove, unto my song,|
And spread thy golden wings in me;
Hatching my tender heart so long,
Till it get wing, and flie away with Thee.
HerbertThe Church. Whitsunday.
| We roar all like bears, and mourn sore like doves.|
Isaiah. LIX. 11.
|See how that pair of billing doves|
With open murmurs own their loves
And, heedless of censorious eyes,
Pursue their unpolluted joys:
No fears of future want molest
The downy quiet of their nest.
Lady Mary Wortley MontaguVerses. Written in a Garden. St. 1.
| The Dove,|
On silver pinions, winged her peaceful way.
MontgomeryPelican Island. Canto I. L. 173.
|Ut solet accipiter trepidas agitare columbas.|
As the hawk is wont to pursue the trembling doves.
OvidMetamorphoses. V. 606.
|Not half so swift the trembling doves can fly,|
When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky;
Not half so swiftly the fierce eagle moves,
When thro the clouds he drives the trembling doves.
PopeWindsor Forest. L. 185.
| Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.|
Psalms. LV. 6.
|Anon, as patient as the female dove,|
When that her golden couplets are disclosed,
His silence will sit drooping.
Hamlet. Act V. Sc. 1. L. 309.
|The dove and very blessed spirit of peace.|
Henry IV. Pt. II. Act IV. Sc. 1. L. 46.
|So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows.|
Romeo and Juliet. Act I. Sc. 5. L. 50.
|And oft I heard the tender dove|
In firry woodlands making moan.
|I heard a Stock-dove sing or say|
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze:
He did not cease; but cooedand cooed;
And somewhat pensively he wooed:
He sang of love, with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith, and inward glee;
That was the song,the song for me!
WordsworthO Nightingale! Thou Surely Art.