William Shakespeare

HIPPOLYTABut all the story of the night told over,And all their minds transfigured so together,More witnesseth than fancy__ imagesAnd grows to something of great constancy,But, howsoever, strange and admirable.

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then, heigh-ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.

But I am bound upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears do scald like moulten lead.

Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upwardTo what they were before.

__ebastian: By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore I shall carve of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad recompense for your love to lay any of them on you.

I have a soul of leadSo stakes me to the ground I cannot move.

Not a whit, we defy augury: there's a specialprovidence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now,'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will benow; if it be not now, yet it will come: thereadiness is all.

Let us not burthen our remembrance withA heaviness that's gone.

The grief that does not speak whispers the o'erfraught heart and bids it break.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds that sees into the bottom of my grief?

Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.

Each substance of grief hath twenty shadows, which shows like grief itself, but is not so; or sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears, divides one thing entire to many objects: like perspectives which, rightly gaz'd upon, show nothing but confusion:

My particular grief Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself.

Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stones!

Do not forever with thy vailed lidsSeek for thy noble father in the dust.Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die,Passing though nature to eternity.

Have I thought long to see this morning__ face,And doth it give me such a sight as this?

for my grief's so greatThat no supporter but the huge firm earthCan hold it up: here I and sorrows sit;Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.(Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)

To weep is to make less the depth of grief.