The robb'd that smiles, steals something from the thief; He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.
The robb'd that smiles, steals something from the thief; He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.
Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now.
The King hath sent to know
The nature of your griefs; and whereupon
You conjure from the breast of civil peace
Such bold hostility, teaching his duteous land
Audacious cruelty.
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud For grief is proud an't makes his owner stoop
A plague of sighing and grief!
I swear 'tis better to be lowly born, And range with humble livers in content, Than to be perked up in a glistering grief, And wear a golden sorrow.
My lord, these griefs shall be with speed redress'd;
Upon my soul, they shall.
Patch grief with proverbs.
'Tis not my fault: the boar provok'd my tongue;
Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander;
'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong;
I did but act, he's author of thy slander:
Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet
Could rule them both without ten women's wit.
Feed on her damask cheek she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief
ROMEO But, soft what light through yonder window breaks It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she Be not her maid, since she is envious Her vestal livery is but sick and green And none but fools do wear it cast it off. It is my lady, O, it is my love.
Ay brother, to our grief, as it is yours.
She weeps, and says her Henry is depos'd:
He smiles, and says his Edward is install'd;
That she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more;
Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong,
Inferreth arguments of mighty strength,
And in conclusion wins the King from her
With promise of his sister, and what else,
To strengthen and support King Edward's place.
Some griefs are medicinal. Some griefs are med'cinable...
Variable passions throng her constant woe,
As striving who should best become her grief;
All entertain'd, each passion labours so,
That every present sorrow seemeth chief,
But none is best: then join they all together,
Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.
By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
To hearken if his foes pursue him still:
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;
And now his grief may be compared well
To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.
Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament;
Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident.
You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,
As full of grief as age; wretched in both.
Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief,
Burst smilingly.
Some grief shows much of love;
But much of grief shows still some want of wit.
Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so,
To make my end too sudden.
To my grief, I am
The heir of his reward;
which I will add
To you, the liver, heart, and brain, of Britain,
By whom I grant she lives.
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love, your sorrow and my grief
Were both extermin'd.
... and in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief.
Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.
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.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she Be not her maid, since she is envious.
To weep is to make less the depth of grief.
Joy absent, grief is present for that time.
What's gone and what's past help; Should be past grief.
Farewell, old Gaunt; thy sometimes brother's wife,
With her companion, Grief, must end her life.
Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.
Everyone can master a grief, but he that has it.
'Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv'd
From some forefather grief; mine is not so,
For nothing hath begot my something grief,
Or something hath the nothing that I grieve;
'Tis in reversion that I do possess-
But what it is that is not yet known what,
I cannot name; 'tis nameless woe, I wot.
Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief.
I'll kill myself for grief.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories