To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal, but sorrow flouted at is double death.
There she shook the holy water from her heavenly eyes, and clamour moistened.
Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break.
Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news hath but a losing office, and his tongue sounds ever after as a sullen bell, remember’d tolling a departing friend.
What we have we prize not to the worth whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, why, then we rack the value, then we find the virtue that possession would not show us whiles it was ours.
What I should say, my tears gainsay: for every word I speak ye see I drink the water of mine eyes.
To weep is to make less the depth of grief.
To me and to the state of my great grief let kings assemble, for my grief’s so great that no supporter but the huge firm earth can hold it up. Here I and sorrows sit. Here is my throne; bid kings come bow to it.
Those happy smilets, that played on her ripe lip, seemed not to know what guests were in her eyes; which parted thence, as pearls from diamonds dropped.
The tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.
Patch grief with proverbs; make misfortune drunk with candle-wasters; bring him yet to me, and I of him will gather patience.
No, I’ll not weep: I have full cause of weeping; but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws, Or ere I’ll weep.
