Patch grief with proverbs.

When holy and devout religious men are at their beads, 'tis hard to draw them thence; so sweet is zealous contemplation.

Exceeds man's might: that dwells with the gods above.

There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.

Heaven would that she these gifts should have, and I to live and die her slave.

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feelings as to sight?

I have almost forgotten the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool’d to hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life were in’t: I have supt full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, cannot once start me.