Sorrow calls no time that ‘s gone:
Violets pluck’d, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again.
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully;
Fate’s hid ends eyes cannot see.
Joys as wingèd dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.
John Fletcher (1579–1625)
Plumbing the depths of despair because you didn’t win #operaplot? Dry those tears. In #operaplot, everyone is a winner and not just because your mom says so. [HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!]
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