Rome was not built in a day.
Latin in Palingenics. (1537) | author = Beaumont and Fletcher
| work = Little French Lawyer. Act I. Sc. 3. Same idea "No se gand Zauiora en una hora.—Zamora was not conquered in an hour." Cervantes
| work = Don Quixote.
| place = II. 23.
| note =
| topic = Rose
| page = 678
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>See the wild Waste of all-devouring years!
How Rome her own sad Sepulchre appears,
With nodding arches, broken temples spread!
The very Tombs now vanish'd like their dead!
I am in Rome! Oft as the morning ray
Visits these, eyes, waking at once I cry,
Where is this excess of joy? What has befallen me?
??? i within a thrilling voice replies,
Thou art in Rome! A thousand busy thoughts
Rush on my mind, a thousand images;
And I spring up as girt to run a race!
Sam'l Rogers—Rome.
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.
Utinam populus Romanus unam cervicem haberet!
Would that the Roman people had but one
neck!
Suetonius. In Life of Caligula ascribes it to
Caligula. Seneca and Dion Cassius credit
it to the same. Ascribed to Nero by others.
ROSE
Rosa
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>She wore a wreath of roses,
The night that first we met.
Thos. Haynes Bayly—She Wore a Wreath of Roses.
The rose that all are praising
Is not the rose for me.
Thos. Haynes Bayly—The Rose That all are
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Go pretty rose, go to my fair,
Go tell her all I fain would dare,
Tell her of hope; tell her of spring,
Tell her of all I fain would sing,
Oh! were I like thee, so fair a tiding.
Mike Beverly—Go Pretty Rose.
Thus to the Rose, the Thistle:
Why art thou not of thistle-breed?
Of use thou'dst, then, be truly,
For asses might upon thee feed.
F. N. Bodenstedt—The Rose and Thistle. Trans, from the German by Frederick Ricord.
The full-blown rose, mid dewy sweets
Most perfect dies.
Maria Brooks—Written on Seeing Pharamond.
This guelder rose, at far too slight a beck
Of the wind, will toss about her flower-apples.
E. B. Browning—Aurora Leigh. Bk. II.
| note =
| topic = Rose
| page = 678
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>O rose, who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet,
But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubblewheat,—
Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.
E. B. Browning—A Dead Rose.
| note =
| topic = Rose
| page = 678
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>'Twas a yellow rose,
By that south window of the little house,
My cousin Romney gathered with his hand
On all my birthdays, for me, save the last;
And then I shook the tree too rough, too rough,
For roses to stay after.
E. B. Browning—Aurora Leigh. Bk. VI.
And thus, what can we do,
Poor rose and poet too,
Who both antedate our mission
In an unprepared season?
E. B. Browning—A Lay of the Early Rose.
"For if I wait," said she,
"Till time for roses be,—
For the moss-rose and the musk-rose,
Maiden-blush and royal-dusk rose,—
"What glory then for me
In such a company?—
Roses plenty, roses plenty
And one nightingale for twenty?"
E. B. Browning—A Lay of Che Early Rose.
Red as a rose of Harpocrate.
E. B. Browning—Isobel's Child.
| seealso = (See also Burmann under Secrecy)
| topic = Rose
| page = 678
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>You smell a rose through a fence:
If two should smell it, what matter?
E. B. Browning—Lord Walter's Wife.
A white rosebud for a guerdon.
E. B. Browning—Romance of the Svmn'sN est.
All June I bound the rose in sheaves,
Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves.
Robert Browning—One Way of Love.
Loveliest of lovely things are they
On earth that soonest pass away.
The rose that lives its little hour
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
Bryant—A Scene on Ike Banks of the Hudson.
I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in
view,
For its like a baumy kiss o'er her sweet bonnie
mou'!
Burns—The Posie.
Yon rose-buds in the morning dew,
How pure amang the leaves sae green!
Burns—To Chforis.
When love came first to earth, the Spring
Spread rose-beds to receive him.
Campbell—Song. When Love Came First to
Earth.
Roses were sette of swete savour,
With many roses that thei bere.
Chaucer—The Romaunt of the Rose.
