Mourning

"Forever honourd, and forever mournd."

"Each lonely scene shall thee restore; For thee the tear be duly shed; Belovd till life can charm no more, And mournd till Pitys self be dead."

"When I am dead, no pageant train Shall waste their sorrows at my bier, Nor worthless pomp of homage vain Stain it with hypocritic tear."

"He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men oer him wept."

"Mourning is not the index of true love. It betrays love of the object, of its shape only. That is not love. True love is shown by the certainty that the object of love is in the Self and that it can never become non-existent."

"O! sing unto my roundelay, O! drop thy briny tear with me. Dance no more at holiday, Like a running river be; My love is dead, Gone to his death bed All under the willow tree."

"Seems, madam! Nay, it is; I know not "seems." Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath. No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected haviour of the visage, Together with all forms, modes, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly; these indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play, But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe."

"It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting."

"He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend. Eternity mourns that. Tis an ill cure For lifes worst ills to have no time to feel them."

"Si vis me flere, dolendum est Primum ipsi tibi."