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Quotes by Hood
71 quotations from The Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations (1896), with the subject each one is filed under.
A man that's fond precociously of stirring Must be a spoon.— filed under Action
Pope's trans. When he's forsaken, Wither'd and shaken, What can an old man do but die?— filed under Affliction
It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives.— filed under Apparel
O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.— filed under Bed
While the steeples are loud in their joy, To the tune of the bells' ring-a-ding, Let us chime in a peal, one and all, For we all should be able to sing Hullah baloo. น.— filed under Bells
Jeremiah III. Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.— filed under Blushes
Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.— filed under Brooks
Epitaph. Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun.— filed under Charity
Of horn and morn, and hark and bark, And echo's answering sounds, All poets' wit hath ever writ In dog-rel verse of hounds.— filed under Chastity
Pope's trans. Another tumble! that's his precious nose! g.. HOOD-Parental Ode to My Son. Oh, when I was a tiny boy My days and nights were full of joy. My mates were blithe and kind! No wonder that I sometimes sigh And dash the tear drop from my eye To cast a look behind!— filed under Childhood
It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives.— filed under Cruelty
Pope's trans. One more unfortunate Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!— filed under Death
We watch'd her breathing thro' the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. * * * * * * Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.— filed under Death
Pope's trans. Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural and full of contradictions; Yet others of our most romantic schemes Are something more than fictions.— filed under Dreams
Old Manse. The New Adam and Eve. "Good well-dress'd turtle beats them hollow, - It almost makes me wish, I vow, To have two stomachs, like a cow!" And lo! as with the cud, an inward thrill Upheaved his waistcoat and disturb'd his frill, His mouth was oozing, and he work'd his jaw- "I almost think that I could eat one raw."— filed under Eating
He who does evil that good may come, pays a toll to the devil to let him into heaven. J. C. and A. W. HARE-Guesses at Truth. P. 444. But evil is wrought by want of Thought, As well as want of Heart!— filed under Aristophanes
Pope's trans. For my part getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.— filed under Falsehood
Breakfast-Table. X. I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs, where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday, - The tree is living yet.— filed under Flirting
Ælla. The cowslip is a country wench.— filed under Flowers-Clover
Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand Some random bud will meet; Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find The daisy at thy feet.— filed under Flowers-Daisy
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.— filed under Flowers-Ivy
the Field. The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.— filed under Flowers-Lily
Pea, Sweet. Lathyrus Odoratus. The pea is but a wanton witch In too much haste to wed, And clasps her rings on every hand.— filed under Flowers-Papaw
of Time. It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast: It was the time of roses; We pluck'd them as we pass'd.— filed under Flowers-Rose
Winter. Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to street Till-think of that who find life so sweet!- She hates the smell of roses.— filed under Flowers-Rose
Rosemary. Rosmarinus. Dreary rosmarye That always mourns the dead. S.— filed under Flowers-Rosemary
The tulip is a courtly quean, Whom, therefore, I will shun.— filed under Flowers-Violet
The violet is a nun.— filed under Flowers-Violet
Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold.— filed under Gold
And there is ev'n a happiness That makes the heart afraid.— filed under Happiness
Pope's trans Peace and rest at length have come All the day's long toil is past; And each heart is whispering, "Home, Home at last!"— filed under Home
Who hath not met with home-made bread, A heavy compound of putty and lead- And home-made wines that rack the head, And home-made liquors and waters? Home-made pop that will not foam, And home-made dishes that drive one from home- * * * * * * Home-made by the homely daughters.— filed under Home
Pope's trans. It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy.— filed under Ignorance
Better World. Seem'd washing his hands with invisible soap In imperceptible water.— filed under Imagination
Pope's trans. With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.— filed under Labor
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief.— filed under Leisure
I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away!— filed under Memory
There's not a string attuned to mirth But has its chord in melancholy.— filed under Merriment
Bryant's trans. One more unfortunate Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death.— filed under Misfortune
No park-no ring-no afternoon gentility- No company-no nobility- No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member- No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November!— filed under Months-November
Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go Over those hoary crests, divinely led! Art thou that huntress of the silver bow Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow, Where hunters never climbed-secure from dread?— filed under Monuments
The moon, the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shady-now bright and sunny- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range, Is the moon-so called-of honey!— filed under Monuments
Bryant's trans. The Morn! she is the source of sighs, The very face to make us sad; If but to think in other times The same calm quiet look she had. C.— filed under Morning
Actors. The Author to His Booke. It's very hard! Oh, Dick, my boy, It's very hard one can't enjoy A little private spouting; But sure as Lear or Hamlet lives, Up comes our master, Bounce! and gives The tragic Muse a routing.— filed under Observation
Butchering. Whoe'er has gone thro' London street, Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat, And how he keeps Gloating upon a sheep's Or bullock's personals, as if his own; How he admires his halves And quarters-and his calves, As if in truth upon his own legs grown.— filed under Occupations-Authorship
Breakfast Table. VIII. The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no Salaam; And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.— filed under Occupations-Hatters
Pope's trans. Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms.— filed under Occupations-Military
Well, something must be done for May, The time is drawing nigh- To figure in the Catalogue, And woo the public eye. Something I must invent and paint; But oh my wit is not Like one of those kind substantives That answer Who and What?— filed under Occupations-Navigation
Technogamia. Some sigh for this and that; My wishes don't go far; The world may wag at will, So I have my cigar.— filed under Occupations-Tobacconists
Pilgrim Fathers in New England. Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.— filed under Ocean
'Tis strange how like a very dunce, Man, with his bumps upon his sconce, Ilas lived so long, and yet no knowledge he Has had, till lately, of Phrenology- A science that by simple dint of Head-combing he should find a hint of, When scratching o'er those little pole-hills The faculties throw up like mole hills.— filed under Phrenology
O God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!— filed under Poverty
Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, Would that its tone could reach the Rich, She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"— filed under Poverty
The Cause of God and His People in New England. May 27, 1663. No solemn, sanctimonious face I pull, Nor think I'm pious when I'm only bilious- Nor study in my sanctum supercilious To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull.— filed under Religion
Now, really, this appears the common case Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?— filed under Rumor
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn ;- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.— filed under Sows
544 SEASONS (THE)-AUTUMN. The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying ;-- Old age, begin sighing!— filed under Sows
The year's in the wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!— filed under Sows
Pope's trans. There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be, In the cold grave-under the deep, deep sea, Or in wide desert where no life is found, Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound.— filed under Silence
Second Series. Ed. 1891. SKY (THE). How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!— filed under Singers
Rhythms. Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise; But waking flow'rs, At morning hours, Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies. S.— filed under Summer
She stood breast-high amid the corn, Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.— filed under Summer
Pope's trans. My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.— filed under Tears
Oh! would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now And have a good cry! น.— filed under Tears
Where is the pride of Summer,-the green prime,- The many, many leaves all twinkling?-three On the mossed elm; three on the naked lime Trembling, and one upon the old oak tree! Where is the Dryad's immortality?— filed under Treason
I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky.— filed under Trees And Plants-Chestnut
How widely its agencies vary, - To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless, - As even its minted coins express, Now stamp'd with the image of good Queen Bess, And now of a Bloody Mary.— filed under Variety
The wolfsbane I should dread.— filed under Weeds
Pope's trans. But, alas! alas! for the woman's fate, Who has from a mob to choose a mate! 'Tis a strange and painful mystery! But the more the eggs the worse the hatch; The more the fish, the worse the catch; The more the sparks the worse the match; Is a fact in woman's history.— filed under Woman
And soon Their hushing dances languished to a stand, Like midnight leaves when, as the Zephyrs swoon, All on their drooping stems they sink unfanned.— filed under Zephyrs
Fairies What joy have I in June's return? My feet are parched-my eyeballs burn, I scent no flowery gust; But faint the flagging Zephyr springs, With dry Macadam on its wings, And turns me "dust to dust."— filed under Zephyrs