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The like allayment could I give my grief;
My love admits no qualifying cross:
No more my grief, in such a precious loss.
The heart hath treble wrong,
When it is barr'd the aidance of the tongue.
Some grief shows much of love;
But much of grief shows still some want of wit.
My grief lies all within,
And these external manners and laments
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief,
That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul.
The gods rebuke me, but it is a tidings
To wash the eyes of kings.
R. II. iv. 1.
A plague of sighing and grief! it blows a man up like a bladder. H. IV. PT. I. ii. 4.
A. C. v. 1.
I pray thee, cease thy counsel,
Which falls into mine ears as profitless
As water in a sieve: give not me counsel,
Nor let no comforter delight mine ear,
But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine.
Your cause of sorrow
Must not be measur'd by its worth, for then
It hath no end.
Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak,
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and makes it break.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,
That sees into the bottom of my grief?
Had he the motive and the cue for passion,
That I have, he would drown the stage with tears,
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech;
Make mad the guilty, and appal the free,
Confound the ignorant, and amaze, indeed,
The very faculties of eyes and ears.
Like the lily,
That once was mistress of the field, and flourish'd,
I'll hang my head, and perish.
H.VIII. iii. 1.
Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel:
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,
An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,
Doating like me, and like me banished,
Then might'st thou speak, then might'st thou tear thy hair,
And fall upon the ground, as I do now,
Taking the measure of an unmade grave.
R. J. iii. 3.
Grief softens the mind, and makes it fearful and degenerate. H.VI. PT. II. iv. 4
There she shook
The holy water from her heavenly eyes,
And clamour-moisten'd: then away she started,
To deal with grief alone.
O, insupportable! O, heavy hour!
Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse
Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe
Should yawn at alteration.
Good, my lords,
I am not prone to weeping, as our sex
Commonly are; the want of which vain dew,
Perchance, shall dry your pities; but I have
That honourable grief lodg'd here, which burns
Worse than tears drown.
Woe doth the heavier sit,
Where it perceives it is but faintly borne.
My lord;-I found the prince in the next room,
Washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks;
With such a deep demeanour in great sorrow,
That tyranny, which never quaff'd but blood,
Would, by beholding him, have wash'd his knife
With gentle eye-drops.
Care is no cure, but rather corrosive,
For things that are not to be remedied.
One of the prettiest touches of all, and that which angled for mine eyes (caught the water, though not the fish) was, when at the relation of the queen's death, with the manner how she came to it, (bravely confessed and lamented by the king), how attentiveness wounded his daughter: till, from one sign of dolour to another, she did, with an alas! I would fain say, bleed tears; for, I am sure, my heart wept blood. Who was most marble there, changed colour; some swooned, all sorrowed: if all the world could have seen it, the woe had been universal. W.T. v. 2.
Why do you keep alone,
Of sorriest fancies your companions making?
Using those thoughts, which should indeed have died
With them they think on? Things without all remedy
Should be without regard.
M. iii. 2.
These tidings nip me: and I hang the head,
As flowers with frost, or grass beat down with storms.
Tit. And. iv. 4.
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.
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!
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
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. III. ii. 1.
How now! has sorrow made thee dote already?
The chapel where they lie: and tears, shed there,
Shall be my recreation: so long as Nature
Will bear up with this exercise, so long
I daily vow to use it.
Sorrow, and grief of heart,
Made him speak fondly, like a frantic man.
Tit. And. iii. 2.
K. L. v. 3.
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.
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. H. iv. 5.
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.
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.
Friend, I owe more tears
To this dead man, than thou shalt see me pay.
Strange it is,
That nature must compel us to lament
Our most persisted deeds.
Great griefs, I see, medicine the less.
What's gone, and what's past help,
Should be past grief.
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?
Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are ye all gone?
And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?
O, that I were as great
H.VIII. iv. 2.
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.
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: ad 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.