Imatges de pÓgina


These tidings nip me: and I hang the head,
As flowers with frost, or grass beat down with storms.

Nor doth the general care

Take hold on me; for my particular grief
Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature,
That it engluts and swallows other sorrows,
And it is still itself.

Tit. And. iv. 4.

Many a morning hath he there been seen,
With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew,
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs.

O, I could play the woman with mine eyes,
And braggart with my tongue!

O. i. 3.

R. J. i. 1.

M. iv. 3.

Now my soul's palace is become a prison:
Ah, would she break from hence! that this my body
Might in the ground be closed up in rest;

For never henceforth shall I joy again. H.VI. PT. 111. ii. 1.
How now! has sorrow made thee dote already?

Tit. And. iii. 2.

His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life
Began to crack."

But let not therefore my good friends be griev'd,
Nor construe any further my neglect,
Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,
Forgets the shows of love to other men.
All things that we ordained festival,
Turn from their office to black funeral:
Our instruments, to melancholy bells:
Our wedding cheer, to a sad burial feast;
Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change;
Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,
And all things change them to the contrary.

Once a day I'll visit

The chapel where they lie: and tears, shed there,

K. L. v. 3.

J. C. i. 2.

R. J. iv. 5.

Shall be my recreation: so long as Nature

Will bear up with this exercise, so long

I daily vow to use it.

W. T. iii. 2.

O break, my heart!-poor bankrupt, break at once!
To prison, eyes! ne'er look on liberty!

Vile earth, to earth resign; end, motion, here;
And thou, and Romeo, press one heavy bier.

R. J. iii. 2.

Sorrow, and grief of heart,
Made him speak fondly, like a frantic man.

R. II. iii. 3.


Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds;
And he, the noble image of my youth,

Is overspread with them: therefore my grief
Stretches itself beyond the hour of death.

H. IV. PT. II. iv. 4.

We must be patient: but I cannot choose but weep, to think they should lay him i' the cold ground.

Bind up those tresses: O, what love I note
In the fair multitude of those her hairs!
Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen,
Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends
Do glew themselves in sociable grief;
Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,
Sticking together in calamity.

H. iv. 5.

K. J. iii 4.

There's nothing in this world can make me joy:
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.

Every one can master a grief, but he that has it.

What fates impose, that men must needs abide;
It boots not to resist both wind and tide.

K. J. iii. 4.

M. A. iii. 2.

H.VI. PT. III. iv. 3.

Wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss, But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.

H. VI. PT. III. v. 4.

What is he whose grief

Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow
Conjures the wand'ring stars, and makes them stand
Like wonder-wounded hearers?

H. v. i.

Friend, I owe more tears

To this dead man, than thou shalt see me pay.

J.C. v. 3.

[blocks in formation]

Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are ye all gone?
And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?

W.T. ii. 2.

H.VIII. iv. 2.

O, that I were as great

As is my grief!

R. II. iii 3.


And but he's something stain'd

With grief, that's beauty's canker, thou might'st call him
A goodly person.

T. i. 2.

I have in equal balance justly weigh'd,
What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we suffer,
And find our griefs heavier than our offences.

H.IV. PT. II. iv. 1.

All of us have cause

To wail the dimming of our shining star;
But none can cure their harms by wailing them.

Why, courage, then! what cannot be avoided,
"Twere childish weakness to lament, or fear.


R. III. ii. 2.

H. VI. PT. III. v. 4.

And, father cardinal, I have heard you say,
That we shall see and know our friends in heaven
If that be true, I shall see my boy again;
For, since the birth of Cain, the first male child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire,

There was not such a gracious creature born.
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek;
And he will look as hollow as a ghost,
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit;
And so he'll die; and, rising so again,

When I shall meet him in the court of heaven

I shall not know him: therefore, never, never,
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

He talks to me that never had a son.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.
Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort than you do.-
I will not keep this form upon my head,
When there is such disorder in my wit.
O lord, my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure!

K. J. iii. 4.

K. J. iii. 4.

K. J. iii. 4.


The violence of either grief or joy,

Their own enactures with themselves destroy:
Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament;
Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident.


O thus, quoth Dighton, lay the gentle babes,
Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, girdling one another,
Within their alabaster innocent arms.


So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

Guiltiness will speak

Though tongues were out of use.

H. iii. 2.

R. III. iv. 3.

Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in it?

And then it started like a guilty thing

Upon a fearful summons.

The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed.

H. iv. 5.

0. v. 1.

H. iii. 2.

II. i. 1.


I'll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still,
That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy thoughts. T. C. v. ii.

Infected minds

To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below;
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.


I have liv'd long enough; my way of life
Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf;
And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,

M. v. 1.

II. iii. 3.

I must not look to have; but, in their stead,
Curses not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare not.


What win the guilty, gaining what they seek?

M. v. 3.

A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy!
For one sweet grape, who will the vine destroy?

Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week?

Or sells eternity to get a toy?




HABIT (See also CUSTOM).

For use almost can change the stamp of nature
And either curb the devil, or throw him out
With wondrous potency.

The tyrant custom, most grave senators,

Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war
My thrice driven bed of down.


H. iii. 4.

O. i. 3.

Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling, and a rich.
H. IV. PT. II. v. 3.


Stoop, boys: this gate

Instructs you how to adore the heavens; and bows you
To morning's holy office: The gates of monarchs
Are arch'd so high, that giants jet through
And keep their impious turbans on, without
Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven!
We house i'the rock, yet use thee not so hardly
As prouder livers do.


A halter, gratis; nothing else, for God's sake.


O, that her hand,

In whose comparison all whites are ink,

Cym. iii. 3.

M. V. iv.

Writing their own reproach; To whose soft seizure
The cygnet's down is harsh, and spirit of sense
Hard as the palm of ploughmen.


T.C. i. 1.

O Lord! he will hang upon him like a disease: he is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad. M. A. i. 1.


O the charity of a penny cord! it sums up thousands in a trice: you have no true debitor and creditor but it: of what's past, is, and to come, the discharge: Your neck, Sir, is pen, book, and counters, so the acquittance follows.

Cym. v. 4.

A heavy reckoning for you, Sir; but the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth: you come in faint for want of meat, denart

« AnteriorContinua »