Go not for every grief to the physician, nor for every quarrell to the lawyer, nor for every thirst to the pot.
Was ever grief like mine?
If folly were griefe every house would weepe. [If folly were grief, every house would weep.]
Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing.
Sorrow was all my soul; I scarce believed, Till grief did tell me roundly, that I lived.
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