Each substance of grief hath twenty shadows, which shows like grief itself, but is not so; or sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears, divides one thing entire to many objects: like perspectives which, rightly gaz'd upon, show nothing but confusion:
All places that the eye of heaven visits are to a wise man ports and happy havens. Teach thy necessity to reason thus; there is no virtue like necessity.
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth, Let's choose executors and talk of wills
Woe, destruction, ruin, and decay; the worst is death and death will have his day.
Call it not patience, Gaunt; it is despair:
If I turn mine eyes upon myself, I find myself a traitor with the rest;
Our nearness to the king in love is nearness to those who love not the king.
Deal mildly with his youth; for young hot colts, being rag's, do rage the more.
My grief lies all within; and these external manner of laments are merely shadows of the unseen grief that swells with silence in the tortur'd soul.
Mine honor is my life; both grow in one. Take honor from me, and my life is done.
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul; my soul the father: and these two beget a generation of still-breeding thoughts, and these same thoughts people this little world.
Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal the mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne.
Keep time! How sour sweet music is when time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men's lives. I wasted time and now doth time waste me.
I'll read enough When I do see the very book indeed Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself. Give me that glass and therein will I read. No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds? ...
The shadow of my sorrow. Let's see, 'tis very true. My griefs lie all within and these external manners of laments are mere shadows to the unseen grief which swells with silence in the tortured soul. There lies the substance.
For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me. Act V, Scene V
