Oh, devil, devil!
If that the earth could teem with woman’s tears,
Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile.
Out of my sight!

Tears are a cleansing shower for the soul.

Sophy looked at him. Under his amazed and horrified gaze, large tears slowly welled over her eyelids, and rolled down her cheeks. She did not sniff, or gulp, or even sob: merely allowed her tears to gather and fall.
'Sophy, for God's sake do not cry!'
'Oh, do not stop me!' begged Sophy. 'Sir Horace says it is my only accomplishment.'
Mr. Rivenhall glared at her. 'What!'
'Very few persons are able to do it!' Sophy assured him. 'I discovered it by the veriest accident when I was seven years old. Sir Horace said I should cultivate it, for I would find it most useful.'
'You - you - ' Words failed Mr. Rivenhall. 'Stop at once!

If tears were painful, no one would cry.

And tears came before he could stop them, boiling hot then instantly freezing on his face, and what was the point in wiping them off? Or pretending? He let them fall.

. . . I am bound upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears do scald like molten lead.