“Slowly doth bud, and slowly doth mature
The woodland oak, yet doth long time endure.
Lashed by the winds, her leaves around she steews,
But, the wind passed, her beauty she renews.”
Stornelli Politici, ""Costanza"".
Translation reported in Harbottle's Dictionary of quotations French and Italian (1904), p. 354.
Original
Lenta germoglia e lenta si matura La rovere del bosco, e a lungo dura. II vento la disfronda e la flagella: Ma il vento passa e lei si rinnovella.
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Francesco Dall'Ongaro 6
Italian poet, playwright and librettist 1808–1873Related quotes

“I had not time to lick it into form, as a bear doth her young ones.”
The Anatomy of Melancholy (1621), Democritus Junior to the Reader

Source: "Nature and the Book", stanza XV; p. 67, At the Gate of the Convent (1885)
“She can find in her bewilderment no words wherewith to begin, how to order or where to end her speech; fain would she pour out all in her first utterance, but not even the first words doth fear-stricken shame allow her.”
Nec quibus incipiat demens videt ordine nec quo
quove tenus, prima cupiens effundere voce
omnia, sed nec prima pudor dat verba timenti.
Source: Argonautica, Book VII, Lines 433–435

“Not in the time of pleasure
Hope doth set her bow;
But in the sky of sorrow,
Over the vale of woe.”
The Century Vol. 44, Issue 4 (August 1892)
Tears (1892)
Context: Not in the time of pleasure
Hope doth set her bow;
But in the sky of sorrow,
Over the vale of woe. Through gloom and shadow look we
On beyond the years!
The soul would have no rainbow
Had the eyes no tears.

“Courses even with the sun
Doth her mighty brother run.”
The Gipsies Metamorphosed, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919)

Source: Earthsea Books, Tehanu (1990), Chapter 4, "Kalessin"

The Immortality of the Soul (c. 1594). Compare:
:"Our souls sit close and silently within / And their own webs from their own entrails spin; / And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such / That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch." John Dryden, Mariage à la Mode, act ii. sc. 1.;
:"The spider’s touch—how exquisitely fine!— / Feels at each thread, and lives along the line." Alexander Pope, Epistle i. line 217.