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

At the cross, her station keeping,
Stood the mournful mother, weeping,
Where He hung, the dying Lord.
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At the cross, her station keeping,
Stood the mournful mother, weeping,
Where He hung, the dying Lord.
[Lat., Stabat mater, dolorosa
Juxta crucem lacrymosa
Que pendebat Filius.]

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 mother-child relationship is paradoxical and, in a sense, tragic. It requires the most intense love on the mother's side, read more

The mother-child relationship is paradoxical and, in a sense, tragic. It requires the most intense love on the mother's side, yet this very love must help the child grow away from the mother, and to become fully independent.

The pretty and sweet manner of it forced
Those waters from me which I would have stopped;
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The pretty and sweet manner of it forced
Those waters from me which I would have stopped;
But I had not so much of man in me,
And all my mother came into mine eyes
And gave me up to tears.

All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother

All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel 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.

Fostering mother.
[Lat., Alma mater.]

Fostering mother.
[Lat., Alma mater.]