Grief makes one hour ten

Every one can master a grief but he that has it

'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more 'twill be eleven; And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; And thereby hangs a tale

O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours, with Time's deformed hand, Have written strange defeatures in my face.

My grief lies all within, And these external manners of lament Are merely shadows to the unseen grief That swells with silence in the tortured soul

This grief is crowned with consolation, you old smock brings forth a new petticoat, and indeed the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.