Grief (n.) severe at one's own misfortunes does not show that you love your friend, but that you love yourself.
Grief (n.) borne as Fabius bore his son's death makes every philosopher look small beside him.
Grief (n.) for a son can be borne in the thought that the parting will not be for long.
Grief (n.) is never only for our own loss: its bitter tears come from imagining that the one we loved is deprived of life's good things and feels it.
Grief (n.) that arises from our own loss should be borne with moderation, lest it look too much like self-love.
Grief (n.) comes naturally, for we are not the offspring of flints: something soft and tender in our souls is set in violent motion by it, as by a storm.
Grief (n.) has its whole cause in opinion.
Grief (n.) is a freshly conceived opinion of some great present evil — so great that grieving at it seems the right thing to do.
Grief (n.) is impudent when it mourns lost power: it preys on a man because he can no longer command those who are free.
Grief (n.) is the rack itself: lust brings heat, joy levity, fear meanness, but grief consumes, tears, and utterly destroys a man.
Grief (n.) is doubly unjust: born mortal, we demand the condition of the immortals, and we take it to heart that we must restore what was only lent.
Grief (n.) wears away imperceptibly by slow degrees, until a consolation that would once have met wounds finds only scars.
Grief (n.) is a dissolution of the whole man: the Greek lupe, as it were lusis.
Grief (n.) tears out its hair, as if sorrow could be relieved by baldness.
Grief (n.) waits for leisure: Pompey's friends, fleeing the enemy as he lay dying, began to lament him only when they reached Tyre.
Grief (n.) stays recent as long as the imagined evil keeps its freshness: Artemisia, who built the tomb at Halicarnassus, lived in grief and died of it.
Grief (n.) is the one passion with no calm, rational counterpart: there are four perturbations but only three sane emotions.