Sadness and Melancholy

Human misery must somewhere have a stop. There is no wind that always blows a storm.

These dreary dumps. 7

The big round tears Cours’d one another down his innocent nose In piteous chase.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions. 36

Duke: And what’s her history? Viola: A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pin’d in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like Patience on a monument, Smiling at grief.

I’ll queen it no inch further, But milk my ewes and weep.

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.

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.

Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure; Thou wilt never come for pity, Thou wilt come for pleasure.

There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes—

Ah woe is me! Winter is come and gone, But grief returns with the revolving year.

I got the Weary Blues And I can’t be satisfied.

Believe me, every heart has his secret sorrows which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad.

Like Niobe, all tears.

Ah, why should tears the pale cheek fret For aught that waneth here below. Let go, let go!

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.

I beg cold comfort.

Fish not, with this melancholy bait, For this fool-gudgeon, this opinion.

But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old, The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the plowman, splashing the wintry mold, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

A mockery king of snow.

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one.

All my joys to this are folly, Naught so sweet as melancholy.