Tears water our growth.
Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.
Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile, And cry 'content' to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face for all occasions
So may I, blind fortune leading me, Miss that which one unworthier may attain, And die with grieving.
Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?
A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry. But were we burd'ned with like weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain: So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee, With urging helpless patience wouldst relieve me; But if thou live to see like right bereft, This fool-begged patience in thee will be left.
Though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve.
I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.
Grief makes one hour ten.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?