Quotes About Heartache

It was over these few worthless papers that she brooded and brooded. She lived in her past life-every letter seemed to recall some circumstance of it. How well she remembered them all! His looks and tones, his dress, what he said and how-these relics and remembrances of dead affection were all that were left her in the world. And the business of her life, was-to watch the corpse of Love.

Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

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

Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.

The worst was this: my love was my decay.

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs.

You're in love? Out Out of love? I love someone. She doesn't love me.

Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well.

She's Love, she loves, and yet she is not lov'd.

Oh, thou did'st then ne'er love so heartily. If thou rememb'rest not the slightest folly That ever love did make thee run inot, Thou has not loved. Of if thou has't not sat as I do now, Wearying they hearer in thy mistress's praise, Thou has not loved. Of if thou hast not broke from company Abruptly, as my passion now makes me, Thou has not loved. (Silvius)

I am gone, though I am here. There is no love in you. Nay, I pray you let me go.

And must we be divided? Must we part? Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart.

In love? Out- Of love? Out of her favour where I am in love.

El amor es humo hecho de vapor de suspiros; si halla consumacion, es fuego chispeante en los ojos enamorados, de lo contrario, trocase en un mar de lagrimas enamoradas

These words are razors to my wounded heart.

Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth;

I have too grieved a heart To take a tedious leave. Thus losers part.

William Shakespeare

The poor soul sat singing by a sycamore tree. Sing all a green willow: Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee, Sing willow, willow, willow: The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur'd her moans; Sing willow, willow, willow; Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones; Lay by these: Sing willow, willow, willow; Prithee, hie thee; he'll come anon.

It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours? ROMEO: Not having that, which, having, makes them short. BENVOLIO: In love? ROMEO: Out— BENVOLIO: Of love? ROMEO: Out of her favour, where I am in love. BENVOLIO: Alas, that love, so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof! ROMEO: Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will!

This was the most unkindest cut of all;

Gib Worte deinem Schmerz: Gram, der nicht spricht, / Presst das beladene Herz, bis dass es bricht.

Is it best to know about a child's death, even one so horrible, or to know that the child lives but that you will never, never see him again?