Quotes About Loss

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

You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.

For it falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us While it was ours.

You may my glories and my state depose, But not my griefs; still am I king of those.

Woe, destruction, ruin, and decay; the worst is death and death will have his day.

I do feel it gone, But know not how it went

What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours? Romeo: Not having that, which, having, makes them short.

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth, Let's choose executors and talk of wills

When you depart from me sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave.

He that is strucken blind can not forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost.

Your cause of sorrow must not be measured by his worth, for then it hath no end.

Come away, come away, Death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath, I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it! My part of death no one so true did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strewn: Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there!

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

The worst was this: my love was my decay.

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.

Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

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.

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

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.

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.

The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.