Quotes About Loss

Eating the bitter bread of banishment.

What though the mast be now blown overboard,The cable broke, the holding anchor lost,And half our sailors swallow'd in the flood?Yet lives our pilot still.

You take my house when you do take the propThat doth sustain my house; you take my lifeWhen you do take the means whereby I live.

To weep is to make less the depth of grief.

Sweets to the sweet: farewell!

And my large kingdom for a little grave,A little little grave, an obscure grave.

Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless,So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone,Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night,And would have told him half his Troy was burn'd.

All my pretty ones?Did you say all? O hell-kite! All?What! all my pretty chickens and their damAt one fell swoop?

For it so falls outThat what we have we prize not to the worthWhiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and lost,Why, then we rack the value, then we findThe virtue that possession would not show usWhiles it was ours.

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defacedThe rich proud cost of outworn buried age,When sometime lofty towers I see down-rasedAnd brass eternal slave to mortal rage;When I have seen the hungry ocean gainAdvantage on the kingdom of the shore,And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main,Increasing store with loss and loss with store.

Death is a fearful thing.

There's something tells me, but it is not love,I would not lose you; and you know yourself,Hate counsels not in such a quality.

One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she's dead.

Hector is dead; there is no more to say.

He that is robb'd, not wanting what is stol'n,Let him not know 't and he's not robb'd at all.

O! my oblivion is a very Antony,And I am all forgotten.

O! you must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy; I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.

He dies, and makes no sign.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought And with old woes new wail my dear times' waste.

Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows.

I could have better spar'd a better man.

Lady you berefit me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins, And there is such confusion in my powers.

Lady you bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins, And there is such confusion in my powers.

Since Cleopatra died, I have liv'd in such dishonour that the gods Detest my baseness.