Quotes About Grief

Good Madonna, why mournest thou? Good Fool, for my brother's death. I think his soul is in hell, Madonna. I know his soul is in heaven, Fool. The more fool, Madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven.

Too much of water hast thou poor Ophelia, and therefore I forbid my tears. But yet it is our trick, let shame say what it will. when these are gone the women will be out! Adieu my lord, I have a speech of fire that fane would blaze, But that this folly doubts it.

Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

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

O my love, my wife! Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.

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

And will 'a not come again? And will 'a not come again? No, no, he is dead, Go to thy death bed: He will never come again.

for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.

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?

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

For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.

He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.

There's some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable. Good my lords, 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: beseech you all, my lords, With thoughts so qualified as your charities Shall best instruct you, measure me; and so The king's will be perform'd!

You think I'll weep? No, I'll not weep. Storm and tempest. I have full cause of weeping, but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws, Or e're I'll weep.—O Fool, I shall go mad.

Why, such is love's transgression. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest With more of thine: this love that thou hast shown Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; Being vex'd a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears: What is it else? a madness most discreet, A choking gall and a preserving sweet. Farewell, my coz.

My grief lies all within; and these external manner of laments are merely shadows of the unseen grief that swells with silence in the tortur'd soul.

The shadow of my sorrow. Let's see, 'tis very true. My griefs lie all within and these external manners of laments are mere shadows to the unseen grief which swells with silence in the tortured soul. There lies the substance.

O,come,be buried A second time within these arms (They embrace)

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:

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week, Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.

Each new morn New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yelled out Like syllable of dolor.

And my poor fool is hanged. No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life And thou no breath at all? O thou'lt come no more, Never, never, never, never, never.

O shut the door! and when thou hast done so, Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help!

Lady Macduff: [To her son] Sirrah, your father's dead: And What will you do now? How will you live? Son: As birds do, mother. Lady Macduff: What, with worms and flies? Son: With what I get, I mean. and so do they