But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.
Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the fraught bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart
This would have seem'd a period
To such as love not sorrow; but another,
To amplify too much, would make much more,
And top extremity.
I prithee, peace; my soul is full of sorrow.
Expectation is the root of all heartache.
Where is our usual manager of mirthWhat revels are in hand Is there no play,To ease the anguish of a torturing hour
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.
Parting is such sweet sorrow.
This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
I send them back again and straight grow sad.
A traveler By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands, to see other men's then to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress?
And now this pale swan in her watery nest; Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending.
One pain is lessened by another's anguish.
Ay, in good sadness is he; and talks of the basket
too, howsoever he hath had intelligence.
Though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve.
In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.
I prophesy they death, my living sorrow,
If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.
Think with thyself
How more unfortunate than all living women
Are we come hither; since that thy sight, which should
Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with comforts,
Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sorrow,
Making the mother, wife, and child, to see
The son, the husband, and the father, tearing
His country's bowels out.
My rage is gone,
And I am struck with sorrow.
He was to imagine me his
love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me; at which
time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate,
changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish,
shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every
passion something and for no passion truly anything, as boys and
women are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like
him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now
weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his
mad humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was, to
forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.
Come, and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
One fire burns out another's burning, One pain is lessen'd by another's anguish.
Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished,
Once by the King and three times thrice by thee,
'Tis not the land I care for, wert thou thence;
A wilderness is populous enough,
So Suffolk had thy heavenly company;
For where thou art, there is the world itself,
With every several pleasure in the world;
And where thou art not, desolation.
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypres let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
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