When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
We are not ourselves when nature, being oppressed, commands the mind to suffer with the body.
The worst is not so long as we can say “This is the worst.”
Misery makes sport to mock itself.
Meager were his looks. Sharp misery had worn him to the bones.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
I cannot weep, for all my body’s moisture scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart.
I burn, I pine, I perish.
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; They kill us for their sport.
