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.

[Milton] calls the university "A stony-hearted step-mother."

[Milton] calls the university "A stony-hearted step-mother."

When a woman is twenty, a child deforms her; when she is thirty, he preserves her; and when forty, he read more

When a woman is twenty, a child deforms her; when she is thirty, he preserves her; and when forty, he makes her young again.

The one point on which all women are in furious secret rebellion
against the existing law is the saddling read more

The one point on which all women are in furious secret rebellion
against the existing law is the saddling of the right to a child
with the obligation to become the servant of a man.

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 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.

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.

A mother is a mother still,
The holiest thing alive.

A mother is a mother still,
The holiest thing alive.

All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No
man does. That is his.

All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No
man does. That is his.