Let me moderate our sorrows. The grief of a man should not
exceed proper bounds, but be in proportion read more

Let me moderate our sorrows. The grief of a man should not
exceed proper bounds, but be in proportion to the blow he has
received.
[Lat., Ponamus nimios gemitus: flagrantior aequo
Non debet dolor esse viri, nec vulnere major.]

Great, good, and just, could I but rate
My grief with thy too rigid fate,
I'd weep read more

Great, good, and just, could I but rate
My grief with thy too rigid fate,
I'd weep the world in such a strain
As it should deluge once again;
But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies
More from Briareus' hands than Argus' eyes,
I'll sing thy obsequies with trumpet sounds
And write thy epitaph in blood and wounds.

It is foolish to tear one's hair in grief, as though sorrow would be made less by baldness.

It is foolish to tear one's hair in grief, as though sorrow would be made less by baldness.

O, brothers! let us leave the shame and sin
Of taking vainly in a plaintive mood,
The read more

O, brothers! let us leave the shame and sin
Of taking vainly in a plaintive mood,
The holy name of Grief--holy herein,
That, by the grief of One, came all our good.

Grief knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can; and common sufferings are far stronger links than common read more

Grief knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can; and common sufferings are far stronger links than common joys. -Alphonse de Lamartine.

My grief lies all within, And these external manners of lament Are merely shadows to the unseen grief That swells read more

My grief lies all within, And these external manners of lament Are merely shadows to the unseen grief That swells with silence in the tortured soul

What need a man forestall his date of grief,
And run to meet what he would most avoid?

What need a man forestall his date of grief,
And run to meet what he would most avoid?

Grief tears his heart, and drives him to and fro,
In all the raging impotence of woe.

Grief tears his heart, and drives him to and fro,
In all the raging impotence of woe.

Why wilt thou add to all the griefs I suffer
Imaginary ills, and fancy'd tortures?

Why wilt thou add to all the griefs I suffer
Imaginary ills, and fancy'd tortures?