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Birds-Lark: Quotations from Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations

The false lapwynge, full of trecherye.— CHAUCER — The Parlement of Fowles.. L. 47.

Amid thy desert-walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.— GOLDSMITH — Deserted Village. L. 44.

For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs Close by the ground, to hear our conference.— Shakespeare — Much Ado About Nothing. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 25.

Lark. The music soars within the little lark, And the lark soars.— E. B. BROWNING — Aurora Leigh. Bk. III. L. 155.

Oh, stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, Nor quit for me the trembling spray, A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing, fond complaining. * * * * * * Thou tells o' never-ending care, O' speechless grief, and dark despair; For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair! Or my poor heart is broken!— BURNS — Address to the Woodlark.

Sts. 1 and 4 The merry lark he soars on high, No worldly thought o'ertakes him. He sings aloud to the clear blue sky, And the daylight that awakes him.— HARTLEY COLERIDGE — Song.

The lark now leaves his watery nest, And climbing, shakes his dewy wings. He takes your window for the East And to implore your light he sings.— SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT — The Lark

now Leaves his Watery Nest Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place- O, to abide in the desert with thee!— HOGG — The Skylark.

Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed— HURDIS — The Village Curate. L. 276.

None but the lark so shrill and clear; Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings, The morn not waking till she sings.— LYLY — The Songs of Birds.

And now the herald lark Left his ground-nest, high tow'ring to descry The morn's approach, and greet her with h song.— MILTON — Paradise Regained. Br.. II.

J. 279 To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull Night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise.— MILTON — L'Allegro. L. 41.

The bird that soars on highest wing, Builds on the ground her lowly nest; And she that doth most sweetly sing, Sings in the shade when all things rest : In lark and nightingale we see What honor hath humility.— MONTGOMERY — Humility.

I said to the sky-poised Lark: "Hark-hark! Thy note is more loud and free Because there lies safe for thee A little nest on the ground."— D. M. MULOCK — A Rhyme About Birds.

No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings, Shall, list'ning, in mid-air suspend their wings.— POPE — Pastorals. Winter. L. 53.

O earliest singer! O care-charming bird! Married to morning, by a sweeter hymn Than priest e'er chanted from his cloister dim At midnight, -or veiled virgin's holier word At sunrise or the paler evening heard.— ADELAIDE PROCTER — The Flood of

Thessaly. O happy skylark springing Up to the broad, blue sky, Too fearless in thy winging, Too gladsome in thy singing, Thou also soon shalt lie Where no sweet notes are ringing.— CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI — Gone Forever. St. 2.

The sunrise wakes the lark to sing.— CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI — Bird Raptures. L. 1.

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flowers that lies. Cymbeline-Act II. Sc. 3. Song. L. 21. It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. Romeo and Juliet-Act III. Sc. 5. L. 27. It was the lark, the herald of the morn. Romeo and Juliet-Act III. Sc. 5. L. 6. Lo! here the gentle lark, weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun ariseth in his majesty. Venus and Adonis-L.

Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long: And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad; The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time. Hamlet-Act I. Sc. 1. L. 158. Then my dial goes not true; I took this lark for a bunting. All's Well That Ends Well-Act II. Sc. 5. L. 5. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!— SHELLEY — To a Skylark.

Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.— SHELLEY — To a Skylark.

Up springs the lark, Shrill-voiced, and loud, the messenger of morn; Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts Calls up the tuneful nations.— THOMSON — The Seasons. Spring. L. 587.

The lark sung loud; the music at his heart Had called him early; upward straight he went, And bore in nature's quire the merriest part, As to the lake's broad shore my steps I bent.— CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER — Sonnet.

An April Day. The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.— EDMUND WALLER — Of the Queen.

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still!— WORDSWORTH — Poems of the

Imagination. To a Skylark. Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; A privacy of glorious light is thine : Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine: Type of the wise who soar, but never roam: True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!— WORDSWORTH — Poems of the

Imagination. To a Skylark. Linnet. Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat? Loves of his own, and raptures swell the note.— POPE — Essay on Man. Ep. III. L. 33.

Perch'd on the cedar's topmost bough, And gay with gilded wings, Perchance the patron of his vow, Some artless linnet sings. C.— SHENSTONE — Valentine's Day.

I do but sing because I must, And pipe but as the linnets sing.— TENNYSON — In Memoriam. Pt. XXI. St. 6.

Linnets *** sit On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock.— THOMSON — The Seasons. Autumn. L. 974.

Hail to thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion! 'Thou, linnet! in thy green array, Presiding spirit here to-day, Dost lead the revels of the May; And this is thy dominion.— WORDSWORTH — The Green Linnet.

Martlet. The martlet Builds in the weather on the outward wall, Even in the force and road of casualty.— Shakespeare — Merchant of Venice. Act II. Sc. 9. L. 28.

This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his lov'd mansionry, that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here; no jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird Hath made its pendent bed, and procreant cradle : Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd, The air is delicate.— Shakespeare — Macbeth. Act I. Sc. 6. L. 3.