When we our betters see bearing our woes,/ We scarcely think our miseries our foes./ Who alone suffers suffers most i' th' mind,/ Leaving free things and happy shows behind;/ But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip/ When grief hath mates, and bearing friendship./ How light and portable my pain seems now.
Shakespeare, William. King Lear. New York: Signet Classic, 1998, 88.
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