Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, / Nor customary suits of solemn black, / Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, / No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, / Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage, / Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, / That can denote me truly...;
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1599, William Shakespeare, “Act 1, Scene 2”, in Hamlet:
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Her who had made him a pastime, bridging the winter acrossWith a masque, a foolery petty and vain, amusing herself with his loss,—God! it had been but an insult throughout, her ’havior so sisterly free
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1897, Julia Ditto Young, The Story of Saville, Part 6: