For in every ill-turn of fortune the most unhappy sort of unfortunate man is the one who has been happy
To make wail and lament for one's ill fortune, when one will win a tear from the audience, is well worthwhile.
Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.
Yes, I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness, sad as an eagle without wings, sad as a violin with only one string and that one broken, sad as a woman who is growing old. Sad, sad, sad.
In this book, not only is there no happy ending, there is no happy beginning and very few happy things in the middle.
Sorrow is never more sorrowful than when it jests at its own misery.
I'm not really good at writing sad sappy ballads. In terms of the lyrics not matching the vibe of the music, that's kind of the way my career has gone; everyone is a little confused about it all the time.
They are quite hopeless - drooling, driveling, doleful, depressing, dropsical drips.
O wretched state! o bosom black as death!
I highly regret this day in advance.
Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
