Thou marvell'st at my words: but hold thee still;
Things, bad begun, make strong themselves by ill.

Fear from a dreadful Object.

Ibid.

Macbeth.

Angels and ministers of grace defend us-
Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd,
Bring with thee airs from heav'n, or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked or charitable,

Thou com'st in such a questionable shape

That I will speak to thee.

Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings,

You heav'nly guards !—what would your gracious figure ?

Horrour at a dreadful Apparition.

Ibid. Hamlet.

How ill this taper burns! ha! who comes here?
I think it is the weakness of my eyes,

That shapes this monstrous apparition

It comes upon me-Art thou any thing?

Art thou some God, some angel, or some devil,
That mak'st my blood cold, and my hair to start,
Speak to me, what thou art.

Ibid. Julius Cæsar.

Terrour from committing Murder.

Mac. I've done the deed-didst not thou hear a noise?
Lady. I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry.

Did you not speak?

Mac. When?

Lady. Now.

Mac. As I descended ?

Lady. Ay.

Mac. Hark!-who lies i' th' second chamber?
Lady. Donalbain.

Mac. This is a sorry sight.

Lady. A foolish thought to say a sorry sight.

Mac. There's one did laugh in his sleep, and one cry'd murder !

That they did wake each other; I stood and heard them :

But they did say their pray'rs, and address'd them

Again to sleep.

Shakespeare's Macbeth.

Fear of being discovered in Murder.

Alas, I am afraid they have awak'd,

And 'tis not done; th' attempt, and not the deed,
Confounds us--Hark! I laid the daggers ready,
He could not miss them. Had he not resembled
My father as he slept, I had done it.

SORROW.

Shakespeare's Macbeth.

Sorrow is a painful depression of spirit, upon the deprivation of good, or arrival of evil; when it is silent and thoughtful, it is sadness; when long indulged, so as to prey upon and possess the mind, it becomes habitual, and grows into melancholy; when tossed by hopes and fears, it is distraction; when these are swallowed up by it, it settles into despair.

In moderate sorrow, the countenance is dejected, the eyes are cast downward, the arms hang loose, sometimes a little raised, suddenly to fall again; the hands open, the fingers spread, and the voice plaintive, frequently interrupted with sighs. But when this passion is in excess, it distorts the countenance, as if in agonies of pain; it raises the voice to the loudest complainings, and sometimes even to cries and shrieks; it wrings the hands, beats the head and breast, tears the hair, and throws itself on the ground; and, like other passions, in excess, seems to border on frenzy.

Sadness.

Anth. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad.
It wearies me; you say it wearies you :
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn.

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.

;

Gra. You look not well, signor Anthonio
You have too much respect upon the world :
They lose it that do buy it with much care;

Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd.

Anth. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano
A stage, where every one must play his
And mine's a sad one.

part;

;

Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice.

Deep Melancholy described.

She never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' th' 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.

Pensive foreboding.

Ibid. Twelfth Night.

My mother had a maid call'd Barbara,
She was in love; and he she lov'd prov'd mad,
And did forsake her : she had a song of willow
An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune,
And she dy'd singing it: That song to night
Will not go from my mind, I have much to do
But to go hang my head all o' one side,
And sing it like poor Barbara.

Silent Grief.

Ibid. Othello.

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 forc'd breath;
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shows 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 fruits of woe.

Inward Sorrow.

Say that again.

The shadow of my sorrow! Ha! let's see: 'Tis very true, my grief lies all within;

And these external manners of lament

Ibid. Hamlet.

Are merely shadows to the unseen grief
That swells with silence in my tortured soul ;
There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king,
For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st
Me cause to wat, but teachest me the way
How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon,
And then be gone, and trouble you no more.

Sorrow forgetful of its Intentions.

Ibid. Rich. II

Yet one word more ;-Grief boundeth where it falls, Not with the empty hollowness, but weight;

I take my leave before I have begun,
For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.
Commend me to my brother, Edmund York,
Lo, this is all :-nay, yet depart not so ;
Though this be all, do not so quickly go,
I shall remember more. Bid him-Oh, what?
With all good speed at Flashy visit me.
Alack, and what shall good old York there see,
But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls,
Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones ?

And what hear there for welcome but my groans?
Therefore commend me; let him not come there
To seek out sorrow that dwells every where ;
Desolate, desolate, will I hence, and die;
The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.

Grief deploring loss of Happiness.

Ibid. Rich. II.

I had been happy, if the general camp,
Pioneers and all, had wrong'd my love,
So had I nothing known: O now for ever,
Farewell the tranquil mind; farewell content,
Farewell the plumed troop and the big war
That make ambition virtue! O farewell,
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all quality,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone.

Grief approaching to Madness.

Ibid. Othello.

Pand. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.
Const. Thou art unholy to belie me so ;

I am not mad; this hair I tear is mine;
My name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife ;
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost:
I am not mad ;-I would to heaven I were !
For then 'tis like I should forget myself:
Oh, if I could, what grief should I forget!
Preach some philosophy to make me mad,
And, cardinal, thou shalt be canoniz'd;
For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason
How I may be delivered of these woes,
And teaches me to kill or hang myself:
If I were mad, I should forget my son,
Or madly think a babe of clouts were he ;
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The different plague of each calamity.

Ibid. King John.

Grief mixed with Pity, assuming a Smile.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form,
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.

Grief approaching to Distraction.

Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,
An hour but married, Tybalt murder'd,

Doating like me, and like me banished,

;

Ibid.

Then might'st thou speak, then might'st thou tear thy

hair,

And fall upon the ground as I do now,

Taking the measure of an unmade grave.

Ibid. Romeo and Juliet.

Grief choking Expression.

Macd. My children too!

Rosse. Wife, children, servants, all that could be found!

Macd. And I must be from thence! my wife kill'd too? Rosse. I've said.

Mal. Be comforted.

Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge,

To cure this deadly grief.