Reference > Quotations > Hoyt & Roberts, comps. > Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations
Hoyt & Roberts, comps.  Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations.  1922.
                He had kept
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o’er him wept.
        Byron—Childe Harold. Canto III. St. 57.
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.
        Thos. Chatterton—Ælla. Minstrel’s Songs.
Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Belov’d till life can charm no more,
And mourn’d till Pity’s self be dead.
        Collins—Dirge in Cymbeline.
  It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting.
        Ecclesiastes. VII. 2.
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.
        Edward Everett—Alaric the Visigoth.
Forever honour’d, and forever mourn’d.
        Homer—Iliad. Bk. XXII. L. 422. Pope’s trans.
Si vis me flere, dolendum est
Primum ipsi tibi.
  If you wish me to weep, you must mourn first yourself.
        Horace—Ars Poetica. CII.
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.
        Hamlet. Act I. Sc. 2. (“Moods” for “modes” in folio and quarto.)
He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend.
Eternity mourns that. ’Tis an ill cure
For life’s worst ills to have no time to feel them.
        Sir Henry Taylor—Philip Van Artevelde. Pt. I. Act I. Sc. 5.
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.
        N. P. Willis—The Death of Harrison. St. 6.
He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.
        Young—Night Thoughts. Night II. L. 24.

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