My plenteous joys, Wanton in fullness, seek to hide themselves In drops of sorrow.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?
Wherever sorrow is, relief would be. If you do sorrow at my grief in love, by giving love your sorrow and my grief were both extermined.
What I should say, my tears gainsay: for every word I speak ye see I drink the water of mine eyes.
The tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.
Joy, being altogether wanting, it doth remember me the more of sorrow.
