Grief. Shakspeare.

WHY tell you me of moderation;

The Grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste,

And violenteth in a sense as strong

As that which causeth it: How can I moderate it?
If I could temporize with my Affection,

Or brew it to a weak and colder palate,
The like allayment could I give my Grief;
My Love admits no qualifying dross:

No more my Grief, in such a precious loss.

Grief. Shakspeare.

WHEN the Sun sets, the air doth drizzle Dew.
What, still in tears?

Evermore showering? In one little body
Thou counterfeit'st a Bark, a Sea, a Wind:
For still thy eyes, which I may call the Sea,

Do ebb and flow with Tears; the Bark thy body is,
Sailing in this salt Flood; the Winds, thy Sighs;
Who,-raging with thy Tears, and they with them,-
Without a sudden Calm, will overset
Thy tempest-toss'd body.

Grief. - Byron.

YET disappointed joys are Woes as deep
As any man's clay mixture undergoes.
Our least of Sorrows are such as we weep;
'Tis the vile daily drop on drop that wears
The Soul out (like the stone) with petty Cares.

Grief. Byron.

UPON her face there was the tint of Grief,
The settled Shadow of an inward Strife,

And an unquiet drooping of the Eye,
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.

Grief. Shakspeare.

I AM not prone to Weeping, as our sex

Commonly are; the want of which vain dew, Perchance, shall dry your Pities; but I have That honourable Grief lodged here, which burns Worse than Tears drown.

Grief. - Young.

WHO fails to grieve, when just occasion calls,
Or grieves too much, deserves not to be blest;
Inhuman, or effeminate, his Heart.

Grief. Spenser.

LONG thus he chew'd the cud of inward Griefe, And did consume his Gall with Anguish sore; Still when he mused on his late mischiefe,

Then still the smart thereof increased more,
And seem'd more grievous than it was before.
Grief. Spenser.

THUS is my Summer worn away and wasted,
Thus is my Harvest hasten'd all to rathe ;
The ear that budded fair is burnt and blasted;
And all my hoped gain is turn'd to scathe.
Of all the seed that in my youth was sown,
Was none but Brakes and Brambles to be mown.
Grief. Shakspeare.

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,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts;
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form:
Then have I reason to be fond of Grief.

Grief. Spenser.

WHICH when she heard, as in despightfull wise
She wilfully her sorrow did augment,

And offer'd hope of comfort did despise :
Her golden lockes most cruelly she rent,
And scratcht her face with ghastly Dreriment;
Ne would she speake, ne see, ne yet be seene,
But hid her Visage, and her Head downe bent,
Either for grievous Shame, or for great Teene,
As if her Heart with Sorrow had transfixed beene.
Grief. Byron.

THROUGH many a clime 'tis mine to go,
With many a retrospection curst,

And all my Solace is to know,

Whate'er betides, I've known the worst.

What is that worst? Nay, do not ask,

In pity from the search forbear

Smile on-nor venture to unmask

Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there.

Grief. Shakspeare.

EVERY one can master a Grief, but he that has it.

Grief. Shakspeare.

HONEST plain words best pierce the ear of Grief.

Grief. Spenser.

WHAT equall torment to the Griefe of Mind,
And pyning Anguish hid in gentle hart,
That inly feeds itselfe with thoughts unkind,
And nourisheth her owne consuming Smart?
What medicine can any leach's art

Yeeld such a sore, that doth her Grievance hide,
And will to none her Maladie impart?

Grief.

Spenser.

WHICH whenas Scudamour did heare, his heart

Was thril'd with inward Griefe, as when in chace The Parthian strikes a stag with shivering dart, The beast astonisht stands in middest of his Smart. Grief. — Shakspeare.

I PRAY thee, cease thy counsel,
Which falls into mine ears as profitless

As water in a sieve: give not me counsel;
Nor let no comforter delight mine ear,

But such a one, whose wrongs do suit with mine.
Bring me a Father, that so loved his Child,

Whose joy of her is overwhelm'd like mine,
And bid him speak of Patience ;

Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine,
And let it answer every strain for strain
As thus for thus, and such a grief for such,
In every lineament, branch, shape, and form:

If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard;

Cry-Sorrow, wag! and hem, when he should groan; Patch Grief with proverbs; make Misfortune drunk With candle-wasters; bring him yet to me,

And I of him will gather Patience.

But there is no such man.

Grief. — Shakspeare.

Ан, my tender Babes!

My unblown flowers, new-appearing sweets!
If yet your gentle Souls fly in the air—
Hover about me with your airy wings,
And hear your mother's Lamentation.

Grief. - Dryden.

ALAS! I have not words to tell my Grief;
To vent my Sorrow would be some relief;
Light Sufferings give us leisure to complain;
We groan, we cannot speak, in greater Pain.

Grief. Shakspeare.

THE shadow of my Sorrow? Ha! let's see:
'Tis very true, my Grief lies all within;
And these external manners of Lament
Are merely shadows to the unseen Grief,
That swells with silence in the tortured Soul;
There lies the Substance.

Grief.

Moore.

THE world had just begun to steal,
Each hope, that led me lightly on;

I felt not as I used to feel,

And life grew dark, and Love was gone!

No eye to mingle Sorrow's tear,

No lip to mingle Pleasure's breath,

No tongue to call me kind and dear

'Twas gloomy, and I wish'd for Death!
Grief. Shakspeare.

OH that this too too solid Flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!

Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd

His Canon 'gainst Self-slaughter! O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable

Seem to me all the uses of this world!

Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded Garden,

That grows to Seed; things rank, and gross in nature, Possess it merely.

Grief. Campbell.

I ALONE am left on earth!

To whom nor Relative nor Blood remains;
No!-not a kindred drop that runs in human veins.
Grief. Shakspeare.

THE robb'd that smiles, steals something from the thief;
He robs himself, that spends a bootless Grief.

Grief. Byron.

WHAT is the worst of woes that wait on Age?
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?
To view each loved one blotted from life's page,
And be alone on Earth, as I am now.

Grief. Moore.

ALAS! the Breast that inly bleeds

Hath nought to dread from outward blow:

Who falls from all he knows of Bliss
Cares little into what abyss.

Grief. Shakspeare.

To mourn a Mischief that is past and gone,
Is the next way to draw new Mischief on.
Grief. Shakspeare.

EACH substance of a Grief hath twenty shadows,
Which show like Grief itself, but are not so:
For Sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding Tears,
Divides one thing entire, to many objects.
Grief. — Spenser.

SO all the world, and all in it I hate,
Because it changeth ever to and fro,
And never standeth in one certain state,
But still unsteadfast, round about doth go

Like a mill-wheel, in midst of Misery,

Driven with streams of wretchedness and woe, That dying lives, and living still does die.

Grief. Shakspeare.

SOME Grief shows much of Love;

But much of Grief shows still some want of Wit.

Grief. Byron. THE wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, The wrack by passion left behind, A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf, Sear'd by the autumn-blast of Grief!

Grief. Dryden.

HE withers at his Heart, and looks as wan

As the pale spectre of a murder'd man.

H

Grief. Shakspeare.

AD he the motive and the cue for Passion,

That I have, he would drown the stage with Tears,

And cleave the general ear with horrid speech;

Make mad the Guilty, and appal the Free,
Confound the ignorant; and amaze, indeed,

The very faculties of eyes and ears.

Grief. Shakspeare.
HE raised a Sigh so piteous and profound,
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk,
And end his being.

Grief.

Shakspeare.

WHAT, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows;
Give Sorrow words: the Grief, that does not speak,
Whispers the o'er-fraught Heart, and bids it break.