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| Hoyt & Roberts, comps. Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations. 1922. |
| Joy |
| And these are joys, like beauty, but skin deep. Bailey—Festus. Sc. A Village Feast. L. 26. | 1 |
| Joys Are bubble-like—what makes them bursts them too. Bailey—Festus. Sc. A Library and Balcony. A Summer Night. L. 62. | 2 |
| The joy late coming late departs. Lewis J. Bates—Some Sweet Day. | 3 |
| Capacity for joy Admits temptation. E. B. Browning—Aurora Leigh. Bk. I. L. 703. | 4 |
| An infant when it gazes on a light, A child the moment when it drains the breast, A devotee when soars the Host in sight, An Arab with a stranger for a guest, A sailor when the prize has struck in fight, A miser filling his most hoarded chest, Feel rapture; but not such true joy are reaping As they who watch o’er what they love while sleeping. Byron—Don Juan. Canto II. St. 196. | 5 |
| There’s not a joy the world can give like that it takes away. Byron—Stanzas for Music. There’s not a joy, etc. | 6 |
| Oh, frabjous day! Callooh. Callay! He chortled in his joy. Lewis Carroll—Jabberwocky. Alice Through the Looking Glass. | 7 |
| Sing out my soul, thy songs of joy; Such as a happy bird will sing, Beneath a Rainbow’s lovely arch, In early spring. W. H. Davies—Songs of Joy. | 8 |
| Joy rul’d the day, and Love the night. Dryden—The Secular Masque. L. 82. | 9 |
| Our joy is dead, and only smiles on us. George Eliot—Spanish Gypsy. Bk. III. | 10 |
| All human joys are swift of wing, For heaven doth so allot it; That when you get an easy thing, You find you haven’t got it. Eugene Field—Ways of Life. | 11 |
| There’s a hope for every woe, And a balm for every pain, But the first joys of our heart Come never back again! Robert Gilfillan—The Exile’s Song. | 12 |
| And, e’en while fashion’s brightest arts decoy, The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. Goldsmith—The Deserted Village. L. 263. | 13 |
| They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy. Gray—On a Distant Prospect of Eton College. St. 4. | 14 |
| But were there ever any Writhed not at passed joy? Keats—Stanzas. In Drear Nighted December. | 15 |
| Die Freude macht drehend, wirblicht. Joy makes us giddy, dizzy. Lessing—Minna von Barnhelm. II. 3. | 16 |
| Medio de fonte leporum Surgit amari aliquid, quod in ipsis floribus angat. Full from the fount of joy’s delicious springs Some bitter o’er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. Lucretius—De Rerum Natura. IV. 1,129. Byron’s trans. in Childe Harold. I. 82. | 17 |
| Gaudia non remanent, sed fugitiva volant. Joys do not stay, but take wing and fly away. Martial—Epigrams. Bk. I. 16. 8. | 18 |
| Joys too exquisite to last, And yet more exquisite when past. Montgomery—The Little Cloud. | 19 |
| How fading are the joys we dote upon! Like apparitions seen and gone; But those which soonest take their flight Are the most exquisite and strong; Like angel’s visits short and bright, Mortality’s too weak to bear them long. John Norris—The Parting. St. 4. | 20 |
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| Joy, in Nature’s wide dominion, Mightiest cause of all is found; And ’tis joy that moves the pinion When the wheel of time goes round. Schiller—Hymn to Joy. Bowring’s trans. | 21 |
| At Earth’s great market where Joy is trafficked in, Buy while thy purse yet swells with golden Youth. Alan Seeger—Ode to Antares. Last lines. | 22 |
| For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy. Hamlet. Act IV. Sc. 5. L. 186. | 23 |
| My plenteous joys, Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves In drops of sorrow. Macbeth. Act I. Sc. 4. L. 35. | 24 |
| ’Tis safer to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy. Macbeth. Act III. Sc. 2. L. 9. | 25 |
| I wish you all the joy that you can wish. Merchant of Venice. Act III. Sc. 2. L. 192. | 26 |
| Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy. Sonnet VIII. | 27 |
| I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine to-night. Shelley—The Cenci. Act I. Sc. 3. L. 92. | 28 |
| There is a sweet joy which comes to us through sorrow. Spurgeon—Gleanings Among the Sheaves. Sweetness in Sorrow. | 29 |
| Beauty for Ashes, and oil of joy! Whittier—The Preacher. St. 26. Quoting Isaiah LXI. 3. | 30 |
| And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore. Wordsworth—The Fountain. | 31 |
| Joys season’d high, and tasting strong of guilt. Young—Night Thoughts. Night VIII. L. 835. | 32 |
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