Patch grief with proverbs.
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven
I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise.
Farewell, my sister, fare thee well. The elements be kind to thee, and make Thy spirits all of comfort: fare thee well.
I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.
It easeth some, though none it ever cured, to think their dolour others have endured.