Before mine eyes in opposition sits

Grim Death, my son and foe.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book ii. Line 803.

My name is Norval; on the Grampian hills

My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,

Whose constant cares were to increase his store,

And keep his only son, myself, at home.

John Home (1724-1808): Douglas. Act ii. Sc. 1.

The booby father craves a booby son,

And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.

Edward Young (1684-1765): Love of Fame. Satire ii. Line 165.

Gods! How the son degenerates from the sire!

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): The Iliad of Homer. Book iv. Line 451.

For this is England's greatest son,

He that gain'd a hundred fights,

And never lost an English gun.

Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892): Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington. Stanza 6.

That would hang us, every mother's son.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): A Midsummer Night's Dream. Act i. Sc. 2.

Journeys end in lovers meeting,

Every wise man's son doth know.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Twelfth Night. Act ii. Sc. 3.

To God the Father, God the Son,

And God the Spirit, Three in One,

Be honour, praise, and glory given

By all on earth, and all in heaven.

Isaac Watts (1674-1748): Doxology.

Didst thou never hear

That things ill got had ever bad success?

And happy always was it for that son

Whose father for his hoarding went to hell?

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry VI. Part III. Act ii. Sc. 2.

'T was good advice, and meant, my son, Be good.

George Crabbe (1754-1832): Tales. Tale xxi. The Learned Boy.

Nobles and heralds, by your leave,

Here lies what once was Matthew Prior;

The son of Adam and of Eve:

Can Bourbon or Nassau claim higher?

Matthew Prior (1664-1721): Epitaph. Extempore.

What needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones,—

The labour of an age in piled stones?

Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid

Under a star-y-pointing pyramid?

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,

What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?

John Milton (1608-1674): Epitaph on Shakespeare.

Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown,

And put a barren sceptre in my gripe,

Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand,

No son of mine succeeding.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Macbeth. Act iii. Sc. 1.

By the pricking of my thumbs,

Something wicked this way comes.

Open, locks,

Whoever knocks!

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Macbeth. Act iv. Sc. 1.

And all to leave what with his toil he won

To that unfeather'd two-legged thing, a son.

John Dryden (1631-1701): Absalom and Achitophel. Part i. Line 169.