I beseech you, sir,
Harm not yourself with your vexation; I
Am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare[58]
Subdues all pangs, all fears.

CYMBELINE.

Past grace? obedience?

IMOGEN.

Past hope and in despair--that way past grace.

In the same circumstances, the impetuous excited feelings of Juliet,
and her vivid imagination, lend something far more wildly agitated, more
intensely poetical and passionate to her grief.

JULIET.

Art thou gone so? My love, my lord, my friend!
I must hear from thee every day i' the hour,
For in a minute there are many days--
O by this count I shall be much in years,
Ere I again behold my Romeo!

ROMEO.

Farewell! I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

JULIET.

O! think'st thou we shall ever meet again?

ROMEO.

I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come.

JULIET.

O God! I have an ill-divining soul:
Methinks I see thee, now thou art below,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb:
Either my eye-sight fails, or thou look'st pale.

We have no sympathy with the pouting disappointment of Cressida, which
is just like that of a spoilt child which has lost its sugar-plum,
without tenderness, passions, or poetry: and, in short, perfectly
characteristic of that vain, fickle, dissolute, heartless
woman,--"unstable as water."

CRESSIDA.

And is it true that I must go from Troy?

TROILUS.

A hateful truth.

CRESSIDA.

What, and from Troilus too?

TROILUS.

From Troy and Troilus.

CRESSIDA.

Is it possible?

TROILUS.

And suddenly.

CRESSIDA.

I must then to the Greeks?

TROILUS.

No remedy.

CRESSIDA.

A woeful Cressid 'mongst the merry Greeks!
When shall we see again?

TROILUS.

Hear me, my love. Be thou but true of heart--

CRESSIDA.