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. ChattertonÆlla. Minstrels Songs.
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.)
Let us weep in our darknessbut weep not for him! Not for himwho, departing, leaves millions in tears! Not for himwho has died full of honor and years! Not for himwho ascended Fames ladder so high. From the round at the top he has stepped to the sky. N. P. WillisThe Death of Harrison. St. 6.