I could lie down like a tired child,

And weep away the life of care

Which I have borne, and yet must bear.

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822): Stanzas written in Dejection, near Naples. Stanza 4.

In durance vile here must I wake and weep,

And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep.

Robert Burns (1759-1796): Epistle from Esopus to Maria.

Let us weep in our darkness, but weep not for him!

Not for him who, departing, leaves millions in tears!

Not for him who has died full of honor and years!

Not for him who ascended Fame's ladder so high

From the round at the top he has stepped to the sky.

Nathaniel P Willis (1817-1867): The Death of Harrison.

And if I laugh at any mortal thing,

'T is that I may not weep.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Don Juan. Canto iv. Stanza 4.

And what is friendship but a name,

A charm that lulls to sleep,

A shade that follows wealth or fame,

And leaves the wretch to weep?

Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774): The Hermit. Chap. viii. Stanza 19.

Why, let the stricken deer go weep,

The hart ungalled play;

For some must watch, while some must sleep:

So runs the world away.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Hamlet. Act iii. Sc. 2.

So on the tip of his subduing tongue

All kinds of arguments and questions deep,

All replication prompt, and reason strong,

For his advantage still did wake and sleep.

To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep,

He had the dialect and different skill,

Catching all passion in his craft of will.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): A Lover's Complaint. Line 120.

If I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be.

Charles Wolfe (1791-1823): To Mary.

Night is the time to weep,

To wet with unseen tears

Those graves of memory where sleep

The joys of other years.

James Montgomery (1771-1854): The Issues of Life and Death.

Weep no more, lady, weep no more,

Thy sorrowe is in vaine;

For violets pluckt, the sweetest showers

Will ne'er make grow againe.

Thomas Percy (1728-1811): The Friar of Orders Gray.

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,

Sorrow calls no time that's gone;

Violets plucked, the sweetest rain

Makes not fresh nor grow again.

John Fletcher (1576-1625): The Queen of Corinth. Act iii. Sc. 2.

Let us weep in our darkness, but weep not for him!

Not for him who, departing, leaves millions in tears!

Not for him who has died full of honor and years!

Not for him who ascended Fame's ladder so high

From the round at the top he has stepped to the sky.

Nathaniel P Willis (1817-1867): The Death of Harrison.

But man, proud man,

Drest in a little brief authority,

Most ignorant of what he's most assured,

His glassy essence, like an angry ape,

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven

As make the angels weep.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Measure for Measure. Act ii. Sc. 2.

Thrice he assay'd, and thrice in spite of scorn

Tears, such as angels weep, burst forth.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book i. Line 619.

Better trust all, and be deceived,

And weep that trust and that deceiving,

Than doubt one heart, that if believed

Had blessed one's life with true believing.

Wendell Phillips (1811-1884): Faith.

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): Sonnet. On the Death of Mr. West.

But sad as angels for the good man's sin,

Weep to record, and blush to give it in.

Thomas Campbell (1777-1844): Pleasures of Hope. Part ii. Line 357.

On parent knees, a naked new-born child,

Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled;

So live, that sinking in thy last long sleep,

Calm thou mayst smile, while all around thee weep.

Sir William Jones (1746-1794): From the Persian.

Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?

Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 213.

Men must work, and women must weep.

Charles Kingsley (1819-1875): The Three Fishers.

Words that weep and tears that speak.

Abraham Cowley (1618-1667): The Prophet.

To sigh, yet feel no pain;

To weep, yet scarce know why;

To sport an hour with Beauty's chain,

Then throw it idly by.

Thomas Moore (1779-1852): The Blue Stocking.