"Let it not be believed for womanhood;
Think! we had mothers."
Ophelia, in her madness, "the sweet bells jangled out o' tune," says softly:
"I would give you some violets;
But they withered all when my father died."
When Macbeth has reaped the harvest, the seeds of which were sown by his murderous hand, he exclaims,—and what could be more pitiful?
"I 'gin to be aweary of the sun."
Richard the Second feels how small a thing it is to be, or to have been, a king, or to receive honors before or after power is lost; and so, of those who stood uncovered before him, he asks this piteous question:
"I live with bread, like you; feel want,
Taste grief, need friends; subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a king?"
Think of the salutation of Antony to the dead Cæsar:
"Pardon me, thou piece of bleeding earth."
When Pisanio informs Imogen that he had been ordered by Posthumus to murder her, she bares her neck and cries: