Hoyt & Roberts, comps. Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations. 1922.
Dove
And there my little doves did sit
With feathers softly brown
And glittering eyes that showed their right
To general Nature’s deep delight.
E. B. Browning—My Doves.
The thrustelcok made eek hir lay,
The wode dove upon the spray
She sang ful loude and cleere.
Chaucer—The Rime of Sir Thopas.
As when the dove returning bore the mark
Of earth restored to the long labouring ark;
The relics of mankind, secure at rest,
Oped every window to receive the guest,
And the fair bearer of the message bless’d.
Dryden—To Her Grace of Ormond. L. 70.
Listen, sweet Dove, unto my song,
And spread thy golden wings in me;
Hatching my tender heart so long,
Till it get wing, and flie away with Thee.
Herbert—The Church. Whitsunday.
We roar all like bears, and mourn sore like doves.
Isaiah. LIX. 11.
See how that pair of billing doves
With open murmurs own their loves
And, heedless of censorious eyes,
Pursue their unpolluted joys:
No fears of future want molest
The downy quiet of their nest.
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu—Verses. Written in a Garden. St. 1.
The Dove,
On silver pinions, winged her peaceful way.
Montgomery—Pelican Island. Canto I. L. 173.
Ut solet accipiter trepidas agitare columbas.
As the hawk is wont to pursue the trembling doves.
Ovid—Metamorphoses. V. 606.
Not half so swift the trembling doves can fly,
When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky;
Not half so swiftly the fierce eagle moves,
When thro’ the clouds he drives the trembling doves.
Pope—Windsor Forest. L. 185.
Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.
Psalms. LV. 6.
Anon, as patient as the female dove,
When that her golden couplets are disclosed,
His silence will sit drooping.
Hamlet. Act V. Sc. 1. L. 309.
The dove and very blessed spirit of peace.
Henry IV. Pt. II. Act IV. Sc. 1. L. 46.
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows.
Romeo and Juliet. Act I. Sc. 5. L. 50.
And oft I heard the tender dove
In firry woodlands making moan.
Tennyson—Miller’s Daughter.
I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze:
He did not cease; but cooed—and cooed;
And somewhat pensively he wooed:
He sang of love, with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith, and inward glee;
That was the song,—the song for me!
Wordsworth—O Nightingale! Thou Surely Art.