What an ugly, loveless life for a girl.
Of all ill, Self-chosen sorrows are the worst to bear.
I know that you are deathly sick; and yet, sick as you are, not one is as sick as I.
Friendship is a tension. It makes delicate demands.
By God, I’ll have more booty in a moment.
Comply, and fear not, for my load of woe Is incommunicable to all but me.
I live in a place of tears.
Shame I do feel. And I know there is something all wrong about me – believe me. Sometimes I shock myself.
For if any man thinks that he is alone is wise – that in speech, or in mind, he hath no peer – such a soul, when laid open, is ever found empty.
But if I am young, thou shouldest look to my merits, not to my years.
The dead alone can feel no touch of spite.
In his den the monster keep, Giver of eternal sleep.
The penalty is death: yet hope of gain Hath lured men to their ruin oftentimes.
Alas! How sad when reasoners reason wrong.
What woe is lacking to my tale of woes?
All my love gone for nothing. Days of my love, years of my love.
It is not in words that I should wish my life to be distinguished, but rather in things done.
I well believe it, to unwilling ears; None love the messenger who brings bad news.
Rose the joint evil that is now o’erflowing. And the old happiness in that past day Was truly happy, but the present hour Hath pain, crime, ruin: – whatsoe’er of ill Mankind have named, not one is absent here.
None but a fool or an infant could forget a father gone so far and cold. No. Lament is a pattern cut and fitted around my mind – like the bird who calls Itys! Itys! endlessly, bird of grief, angel of Zeus. O heartdragging Niobe, I count you a god: buried in rock yet always you weep.