That it ingluts and fwallows other forrows,
And yet is ftill itself.
Shakespear's Othello.
He bears the fentence well, that nothing bears
But the free comfort which from thence he hears;
But he bears both the fentence, and the forrow,
That, to pay grief, must of poor patience borrow.
Great lords, wife men ne'er fit and wail their lofs,
But chearly feek how to redrefs their harms.
What though the maft be now blown over-board,
The cable broke, the holding-anchor loft,
And half our failors fwallow'd in the flood?
Yet lives our pilot ftill. Is't meet that he
Should leave the helm, and, like a fearful lad,
With tear-full eyes add water to the fea;
And give more strength to that which hath too much?
While in his moan, the fhip fplits on the rock,
Which industry and courage might have fav'd?
Shakespear's Third Part of King Henry VI.
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast;
Which thou wilt propagate, to have them preft
With more of thine: this love, that thou haft fhewn,
Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.
Shakespear's Romeo and Juliet.
Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frofty Caucafus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
By bare imagination of a feaft?
Or wallow naked in December's fnow,
By thinking on fantastick fummer's heat?
Oh, no! the apprehenfion of the good,
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse;
Fell forrow's tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the fore.
Shakespear's King Richard II. 1. You yield too much unto your griefs, and fate, Which never hurts, but when we fay it hurts us. 2. O peace, Tibullus, your philofophy
Lends you too rough a hand to fearch my wounds.
Speak they of griefs, that know to figh and grieve;
The free and unconstrained spirit feels
No weight of my oppreffion.
Griefs that found fo loud, prove always light;
True forrow evermore keeps out of fight.
Chapman's Widow's Tears,
It is fome ease our forrows to reveal,
If they to whom we fhall impart our woes,
Seem but to feel a part of what we feel,
And meet us with a figh but at the clofe.
Daniel's Cleopatra. What news brings't thou, can Egypt yet yield more
Of forrow than it hath? What can it add
To the already overflowing ftore
Of fad affliction, matter yet more fad ?
Is there behind yet fomething of diftrefs
Unseen, unknown? Tell if that greater mifery
There be, that we wail not that which is lefs.
Tell us what fo it be, and tell at first;
For forrow ever longs to hear her worst,
Amaz'd he ftands, nor voice nor body firs;
Words had no paffage, tears no iffue found;
For forrow fhut up words, wrath kept in tears;
Confus'd effects each other do confound:
Opprefs'd with grief, his paffions had no bound.
Striving to tell his woes, words would not come ;
For light cares fpeak, when mighty griefs are dumb,
My coming but increas'd grief's ftarving flore;
For 'till that paffion of itfelf expire,
All kind of comfort but augments it more:
Like drops of oil thrown on a mighty fire.
Shall forrow, through the waves of woes to fail,
Have ftill your tears for feas, your fighs for winds?
To mifery what do bafe 'plaints avail ?
A course more high becomes heroick minds:
None are o'ercome, fave only those who yield.
From froward fortune though fome blows be born,
Let virtue ferve adverfity for fhield :.
No greater grief to grief, than th' enemy's scorn.
E. of Sterline's Julius Cæfar.
So deep of grief, that he muft only think,
Not dare to speak, that would express my woe:
Small rivers murmur, deep gulfs filent flow.
-Long time he tofs'd his thoughts;
And as you fee a fnow-ball being rowl'd
At first a handful, yet long bowl'd about,
It fenfibly acquires a mighty globe:
So his cold grief through agitation grows,
And more he thinks, the more of grief he knows.
Language, thou art too narrow, and too weak
To eafe us now; great forrows cannot speak.
If we could figh our accents, and weep words,
Grief wears and leffens, that tears breath affords :
Sad hearts, the less they feem, the more they are ;
So guiltieft men ftand muteft at the bar :
Not that they know not, feel not their eftate,
But extreme fenfe hath made them defp'rate.
As doth the yearly augur of the fpring,
In depth of woe, thus I my forrows fing;
My tunes with fighs yet ever mix'd among,
A doleful burthen to a heavy fong:
Words iffue forth, to find my grief fome way;
Tears overtake them, and do bid them stay:
Thus whilst one strives to keep the other back,
Both once too forward, foon are both too flack.
Drayton's Queen Ifabel to Richard II. Things of fmall moment we can scarcely hold, But griefs that touch the heart, are hardly told. Drayton's Barons Wars.
-Oh, be of comfort !
Make patience a noble fortitude,
And think not how unkindly we are us'd:
Man, like to caffia, is prov'd beft being bruis'd.
My heart's turn'd to a heavy lump of lead,
With which I found my danger.
Webfler's Dutchess of Malfy..
I fuffer now for what hath former been:
Sorrow is held the eldest fon of fin.
Paft forrows, let us mod'rately lament them;
For those to come, feek wifely to prevent them.
Unkindnefs do thy office; poor heart break:
Thofe are the killing griefs which dare not speak,
Webfler's White Devil.
Be of comfort! and your heavy forrow
Part equally among us; ftorms divided,
Abate their force, and with lefs rage are guided.
Heywood's Woman kill'd with Kindness.
Woe will break ;
'Tis not the greatest grief, that molt do speak.
Great forrows have no leifure to complain:
Leaft ills vent forth, great griefs within remain,
There's no way to make forrow light
But in the noble bearing; be content;
Blows giv'n from heav'n are our due punishment:
All fhipwrecks are not drownings; you fee buildings
Made fairer from their ruins.
Will Rowley's New Wonder.
He doubles grief, that comments on a woe.
Return from Parnaffus. Times have their changes, forrow makes men wife; The fun himself muft fet as well as rife.
John Ford's Perkin Warbeck. Souls funk in forrows, never are without them;
They change fresh airs, but bear their griefs about them.
True grief is ftill alone.
John Ford's Broken Heart.
Oh do not hide thy forrows, fhew them brief;
He oft finds aid that doth disclose his grief.
If thou would't it continue, thou doft wrong;
No man can forrow very much, and long.
But had he been here
He had been flint had he not spent a tear.
For ftill that man the perfecter is known,
Who others forrows feels, more than his own.
What I have loft, kind fhepherds, all you know;
And to recount it were to dwell in woe :
To fhew my paffion in a fun'ral fong,
And with my forrow draw your fighs along ;
Words, then well plac'd might challenge fomewhat due,
And not the cause alone, win tears from you.
This to prevent, I set orations by;
For paffion feldom loves formality.
What profits it a pris'ner at the bar,
To have his judgment spoken regular?
Or in the prifon hear it often read,
When he at first knew what was forfeited?
Our griefs in others tears, like plates in water,
Seem more in quantity. To be relator
Of my mishaps fpeaks weakness, and that I
Have in myself no pow'r of remedy.
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