Quotes
Quotes about Grief
Duke. And what's her history?
Vio. A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
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.
What's gone and what's past help
Should be past grief.
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;
For grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.
Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.
A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder.
Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on,--how then? Can honour set to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? no. Honour hath no skill in surgery, then? no. What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour; what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no. 'T is insensible, then? yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I 'll none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheon. And so ends my catechism.
'T 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.
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not.
Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break.
The bravery of his grief did put me
Into a towering passion.
This grief is crowned with consolation.
Some griefs are medicinable.
Triumphs for nothing and lamenting toys
Is jollity for apes and grief for boys.
My grief lies onward and my joy behind.
Every one can master a grief but he that has it.
Patch grief with proverbs.
Men
Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief
Which they themselves not feel.
Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure;
Married in haste, we may repent at leisure.
Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide,
Or gave his father grief but when he died.
Grief tears his heart, and drives him to and fro
In all the raging impotence of woe.
Of all the griefs that harass the distrest,
Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest.
In the first days
Of my distracting grief, I found myself
As women wish to be who love their lords.
In all the silent manliness of grief.
The best laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft a-gley;
And leave us naught but grief and pain
For promised joy.
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!
