William Shakespeare Grief Quotations

He that is thy friend indeed, He will help thee in thy need: If thou sorrow, he will weep; If thou wake, he cannot sleep: Thus of every grief in heart He with thee does bear a part. These are certain signs to know Faithful friend from flattering foe.

To persevere In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness: 'tis unmanly grief.

Would I were dead, if God's good will were so, For what is in this world but grief and woe?

When remedies are past, the griefs are ended By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended.

Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business, Hath raised me from my bed; nor doth the general care Take hold on me; for my particular grief Is of so floodgate and o'erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself.

But there is no such man; for, brother, men Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it, Their counsel turns to passion, which before Would give preceptial medicine to rage, Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, Charm ache with air and agony with words.

Who alone suffers suffers most i' th' mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind; But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship.

Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind And makes it fearful and degenerate.

What's the newest grief? Each minute tunes a new one.

Weep I cannot; But my heart bleeds.

The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.

Sorrow, like a heavy ringing bell, once set on ringing, with its own weight goes; then little strength rings out the doleful knell.

None can cure their harms by wailing them.

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 honorable grief lodged here which burns worse than tears drown.

Grief hath two tongues; and never woman yet Could rule them both without ten women's wit.

Great griefs medicine the less.

Cease to lament for that thou canst not help; and study help for that which thou lamentest.

A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder.

A heavier task could not have been impos'd, Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable.

a young woman in love always looks like patience on a monument smiling at grief

Poor Desdemona! I am glad thy father's dead. Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Shore his old thread in twain.

O madam, my old heart is cracked, it's cracked!

Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief.

Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow, And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow; Thou canst help time to furrow me with age, But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage.

Verily, I swear, it is 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.

You have but mistook me all the while... I live by bread like you, taste grief, feel want, need friends. Conditioned thus how can you call me king?

Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning; One pain is less'ned by another's anguish; Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning; One desperate grief cures with another's languish.

If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine, Thou robb'st me of a moiety.

When griping grief the heart doth wound, and doleful dumps the mind opresses, then music, with her silver sound, with speedy help doth lend redress.

Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief.

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.

My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.

For grief is crowned with consolation.

Grief makes one hour ten.

To weep is to make less the depth of grief.

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. . . .

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.

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.

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

Would I were dead, if God's good will were so,For what is in this world but grief and woe?

Tell them, that, to ease them of their griefs, Their fear of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, Their pangs of love, with other incident throes That nature's fragile vessel doth sustain In life's uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them.

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

Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud For grief is proud an't makes his owner stoop

What's gone, and what's past help, Should be past grief.

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

Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.

Those that much covet are with gain so fond, For what they have not, that which they possess They scatter and unloose it from their bond, And so, by hoping more, they have but less; Or, gaining more, the profit of excess Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain, That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.

Seems," madam? Nay, it is; I know not "seems." 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly: these indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play: But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with Time's deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face. But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?

She never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm 'i th' bud, feed on her damask cheek. She pinned in thought; and, with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men may say more, swear more; but indeed our shows are more than will; for we still prove much in our vows but little in our love.

Some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words, Remembers me of his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form

And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?

Grief best is pleased with grief's society ...

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, To make my end too sudden.

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

The gallantry of his grief did put me into a towering passion.

I am not mad; I would to heaven I were! For then, 'tis like I should forget myself; O, if I could, what grief should I forget!

No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow, But no man's virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when he shall endure The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel: My griefs cry louder than advertisement.

Patch grief with proverbs.

Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?

You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both.

Instead of weeping when a tragedy occurs in a songbird's life, it sings away its grief. I believe we could well follow the pattern of our feathered friends.

for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can 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)

The robb'd that smiles steals something from the thief: He robs himself that spends a bootless grief

Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows

Every one can master a grief but he that has it

He that is thy friend indeed,He will help thee in thy need:If thou sorrow, he will weep;If thou wake, he cannot sleep:Thus of every grief in heartHe with thee does bear a part.These are certain signs to knowFaithful friend from flattering foe.