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| Hoyt & Roberts, comps. Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations. 1922. |
| Birth; Birthday |
| He is born naked, and falls a whining at the first. Burton—Anatomy of Melancholy. Pt. I. Sec. II. Mem. 3. Subsect. 10. | 1 |
| Esaw selleth his byrthright for a messe of potage. Chapter heading of the Genevan version and Matthew’s Bible of Genesis XXV. (Not in authorized version.) | 2 |
| A birthday:—and now a day that rose With much of hope, with meaning rife— A thoughtful day from dawn to close: The middle day of human life. Jean Ingelow—A Birthday Walk. | 3 |
| And show me your nest with the young ones in it, I will not steal them away; I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet— I am seven times one to-day. Jean Ingelow—Songs of Seven. Seven Times One. | 4 |
| As this auspicious day began the race Of ev’ry virtue join’d with ev’ry grace; May you, who own them, welcome its return, Till excellence, like yours, again is born. The years we wish, will half your charms impair; The years we wish, the better half will spare; The victims of your eyes will bleed no more, But all the beauties of your mind adore. Jeffrey—Miscellanies. To a Lady on her Birthday. | 5 |
| Believing hear, what you deserve to hear: Your birthday as my own to me is dear. Blest and distinguished days! which we should prize The first, the kindest bounty of the skies. But yours gives most; for mine did only lend Me to the world; yours gave to me a friend. Martial—Epigrams. Bk. IX. Ep. 53. | 6 |
| My birthday!—what a different sound That word had in my youthful ears; And how each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears. Moore—My Birthday. | 7 |
| Lest, selling that noble inheritance for a poor mess of perishing pottage, you never enter into His eternal rest. Penn—No Cross no Crown. Pt. II. Ch. XX. Sec. XXIII. | 8 |
| Man alone at the very moment of his birth, cast naked upon the naked earth, does she abandon to cries and lamentations. Pliny The Elder—Natural History. Bk. VII. Sec. II. | 9 |
| Is that a birthday? ’tis, alas! too clear; ’Tis but the funeral of the former year. Pope—To Mrs. M. B. L. 9. | 10 |
| The dew of thy birth is of the womb of the morning. The Psalter. Psalms. CX. 3. | 11 |
| “Do you know who made you?” “Nobody, as I knows on,” said the child, with a short laugh. The idea appeared to amuse her considerably; for her eyes twinkled, and she added— “I ’spect I growed. Don’t think nobody never made me.” Harriet Beecher Stowe—Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Ch. XXI. | 12 |
| As some divinely gifted man, Whose life in low estate began, And on a simple village green; Who breaks his birth’s invidious bar. Tennyson—In Memoriam. Canto 64. | 13 |
| When I was born I drew in the common air, and fell upon the earth, which is of like nature, and the first voice which I uttered was crying, as all others do. Wisdom of Solomon. VII. 3. | 14 |
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