Emotions and Feelings

A mockery king of snow.

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

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

Now is this golden crown like a deep well That owes two buckets filling one another; The emptier ever dancing in the air, The other down, unseen and full of water: That bucket down and full of tears am I, Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.

Now is this golden crown like a deep well That owes two buckets filling one another; The emptier ever dancing in the air, The other down, unseen and full of water: That bucket down and full of tears am I, Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.

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

As is my grief, or lesser than my name, Or that I could forget what I have been, Or not remember what I must be now.

Eating the bitter bread of banishment.

Things past redress are now with me past care.

The caterpillars of the commonwealth, Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.

Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle.

I count myself in nothing else so happy As in a soul remembering my good friends.

I count myself in nothing else so happy As in a soul remembering my good friends.

I count myself in nothing else so happy As in a soul remembering my good friends.

Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor.

Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows.

Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows.

That England, that was wont to conquer others, Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.

O! who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast? Or wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat? O, no! the apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.

O! who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast? Or wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat? O, no! the apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.

O! who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast? Or wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat? O, no! the apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.

For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

Must I not serve a long apprenticehood To foreign passages, and in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?