Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,
And therefore I forbid my tears.

Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Ding-dong
Hark! now I hear them,—Ding-dong, bell.

    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!

The sorrow which has no vent in tears may make other organs weep.

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

To weep is to make less the depth of grief.