Quotes about Brides

I like the story of the newlywed who served ham for her first Sunday dinner. The husband noticed the ends of the ham had been cut off and he asked why. "That's the way my mother always did it," the bride replied with a shrug. He asked his wife's mother the same question and got the same answer, "That's the way my mother did it." Finally he asked the grandma, who replied, "That's the only way I could get it into the pan."

Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.

Bride: "Now I have come to the end of all my troubles." Mother: "Yes, but you don't know which end."

Is more fuss made about what the bride is married in than what she is married to?

When for Air I take my Mare When for Air I take my Mare, And mount her first, She walks just thus, Her Head held low, And Motion slow; With Nodding, Plodding, Wagging, Jogging, Dashing, Plashing, Snorting, Starting, Whimsically she goes: Then Whip stirs up, Trot, Trot, Trot; Ambling then with easy slight, She riggles like a Bride at Night; Her shuffling hitch, Regales my Britch; Whilst Trott, Trott, Trott, Trott, Brings on the Gallop, The Gallop, the Gallop, The Gallop, and then a short Trott, Trott, Trott, Trott, Straight again up and down, Up and down, up and down, Till she comes home with a Trott, When Night dark grows. Just so Phillis, Fair as Lillies, As her Face is, Has her Paces; And in Bed too, Like my Pad too; Nodding, Plodding, Wagging, Jogging, Dashing, Plashing, Flirting, Spirting, Artful are all her ways: Heart thumps pitt, patt, Trott, Trott, Trott, Trott: Ambling, then her Tongue gets loose, Whilst wrigling near I press more close: Ye Devil she crys, I'll tear your Eyes, When Main seiz'd, Bum squeez'd, I Gallop, I Gallop, I Gallop, I Gallop, And Trott, Trott, Trott, Trott, Streight again up and down, Up and down, up and down, Till the last Jerk with a Trot, Ends our Love Chase.

And ye sall walk in silk attire, And siller hae to spare, Gin ye'll consent to be his bride, Nor think o' Donald mair.

Upon the death of his wife: May 16 [1826]- She died at nine in the morning, after being ill for two days-easy at last. I arrived here late last night. For myself, I scarce know how I feel - sometimes as firm as the Bass Rock, sometimes as weak as the waters that break on it. . . . May 18- Another day, and a bright one to the external world, again opens on us; the air soft, and the flowers smiling, and the leaves glittering. They cannot refresh her to whom mild weather was a natural enjoyment. Cerements of lead and wood already hold her; cold earth must have her soon. But it is not my Charlotte, it is not the bride of my youth, the mother of my children, that will be laid among the ruins of Cryburgh, which we have so often visited in gaiety and pastime. No, no. She is sentient and conscious of my emotions somewhere- somehow; where we cannot tell - how we cannot tell; yet would I not this moment renounce her in a better world, for all that this world can give me.

The subject of the poem was Bridget of Kildare (450-523), a Christian lass among the Druids in Ireland. Saint Bridget was A problem child. Although a lass Demure and mild, And one who strove To please her dad, Saint Bridget drove The family mad. For here's the fault in Bridget lay: She WOULD give everything away. To any soul Whose luck was out She'd give her bowl Of stirabout; She'd give her shawl, Divide her purse With one or all. And what was worse, When she ran out of things to give She'd borrow from a relative. Her father's gold, Her grandsire's dinner, She'd hand to cold and hungry sinner; Give wine, give meat, No matter whose; Take from her feet The very shoes, And when her shoes had gone to others, Fetch forth her sister's and her mother's. She could not quit. She had to share; Gave bit by bit The silverware, The barnyard geese, The parlor rug, Her little niece-'s christening mug, Even her bed to those in want, And then the mattress of her aunt. An easy touch For poor and lowly, She gave so much And grew so holy That when she died Of years and fame, The countryside Put on her name, And still the Isles of Erin fidget With generous girls named Bride or Bridget. Well, one must love her. Nonetheless, In thinking of her Givingness, There's no denial She must have been A sort of trial Unto her kin. The moral, too, seems rather quaint. WHO had the patience of a saint, From evidence presented here? Saint Bridget? Or her near and dear?

The proudest monarch that ever wore a crown, or the most illustrious commander whose fortune it has been to subjugate empires, are melted into contrition when she who nursed the incipient fires of his mortal existence is passing from earth to be hidden from his gaze through the appointed seasons of revolving time. Even the obdurate and depraved turn to her with reverence, and though crime may have placed his feet upon the scaffold where his offense is to be expiated, yet even there the obdurate heart melts into contrition as regretful recollections crowd his bosom that his life had not been molded by the plastic hand of a mother's watchfulness and the words of gentle admonition that fell from her lips. We reverence father for his protection and justice, for sheltering abodes that have secured us from the pelting storms, for his continued kindness as we grow from infancy to manhood, for his wise counsels and expenditure of means, perhaps to polish and refine us with educational science, but through all these bestowments the mother's vigilance has been co-equal, and through all she has ministered as the guardian angel of our existence. Her gentle hand is remembered in every circumstance and condition that has intervened. In health she has spoken kindly congratulations and in sickness has patiently watched through the midnight vigils to bathe the burning brow and still the raging pulse with grateful emollients. She moves in a sphere where unselfish affection holds dominion and wins its votaries by the charms of gentleness and grace, which draw upon the most enduring sensibilities evolved in the bosom of mortals. The adoration that may be revealed in the responsive blushes that glow upon a maiden's cheek, may be more impulsive and brilliant, but cannot be more lasting or conducive to the perpetuity of more substantial benefits. The holy flame of a mother's devotion will burn on undiminished in its brightness, while that of the trusted bride and bridegroom may wane and be extinguished upon the bleak shores swept by the unwelcome winds of adversity.

How much the wife is dearer than the bride.

Usura slayeth the child in the womb It stayeth the young man's courting It hath brought palsey to bed, lyeth between the young bride and her bridegroom

Annabel Lee It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea: But we loved with a love that was more than love - I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her high-born kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me - Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud one night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we - Of many far wiser than we - And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling -my darling-my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea - In her tomb by the sounding sea.

On President Theodore Roosevelt; in "Celebrity Register," by Cleveland Amory and Earl Blackwell, 1963. My father always wanted to be the corpse at every funeral, the bride at every wedding and the baby at every christening.

Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside, A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.

Lovers lying two and two Ask not whom they sleep beside, And the bridegroom all night through Never turns him to the bride.

Happy bridegroom, Hesper brings All desired and timely things. All whom morning sends to roam, Hesper loves to lead them home. Home return who him behold, Child to mother, sheep to fold, Bird to nest from wandering wide: Happy bridegroom, seek your bride.