Pain and Despair

Howl, howl, howl, howl! O! you are men of stones: Had I your tongues and eyes, I’d use them so That heaven’s vaults should crack. She’s gone forever.

Pray you now, forget and forgive.

Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.

The worst is not, So long as we can say, “This is the worst.”

The lowest and most dejected thing of fortune.

Poor Tom’s a-cold.

I am a man More sinn’d against than sinning.

A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man.

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world! Crack nature’s molds, all germens spill at once That make ingrateful man!

Necessity’s sharp pinch!

Hysterica passio! down, thou climbing sorrow! Thy element’s below.

But, alas! to make me A fixed figure for the time of scorn To point his slow and moving finger at.

On horror’s head horrors accumulate.

Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou ow’dst yesterday.

The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.

The miserable have no other medicine But only hope.

Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

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.

O! woe is me, To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!

O! what a noble mind is here o’erthrown: The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword.

The time is out of joint; O cursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right!

It is not nor it cannot come to good.

Like Niobe, all tears.

Things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this!