Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she would rather have cried.

Now it has been said from ancient times that all women who weep may be divided into three sorts. There are those who lift up their voices and their tears flow and this may be called crying; there are those who utter loud lamentations but whose tears do not flow and this may be called howling; there are those whose tears flow but who utter no sound and this may be called weeping. Of all those women who followed Wang Lung in his coffin, his wives and his sons’ wives and his maid servants and his slaves and his hired mourners, there was only one who wept and it was Pear Blossom.

"Any woman can weep without tears," she answered over her shoulder, "and most can heal with their hands. It depends on the wound. She is a woman, Your Highness, and that's riddle enough"

When you were born, you cried while others laughed. Perform such deeds that when dying, you laugh while others cry.”

laugh and the world laughs with you. weep and weep alone

The main thing in one's own private world is to try to laugh as much as you cry.

Trust not a woman when she weeps, for it is her nature to weep when she wants her will.

No one can tell if I’m laughing or weeping.

I wonder myself.

Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone. For this brave old earth must borrow its mirth, But has trouble enough of its own. Sing, and the hills will answer; Sigh, it is lost on the air. The echoes bound to a joyful sound, But shrink from voicing care.

Any woman can weep without tears,” she answered over her shoulder, “and most can heal with their hands. It depends on the wound. She is a woman, Your Highness, and that’s riddle enough.

Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone

She would laugh until she choked, never noticing if anyone else shared her mirth.

How strange, this habit of weeping. Do animals weep? Surely they feel sadness — but do they express it with tears? He doubts it. He has never heard of a weeping cat or dog, or of a weeping wild animal. It seems to be a uniquely human trait. He doesn’t see what purpose it serves. He weeps hard, even violently, and at the end of it, what? Desolate tiredness. A handkerchief soaked in tears and mucus. Red eyes for everyone to notice. And weeping is undignified. It lies beyond the tutorials of etiquette and remains a personal idiom, individual in its expression. The twist of face, quantity of tears, quality of sob, pitch of voice, volume of clamour, effect on the complexion, the play of hands, the posture taken: One discovers weeping — one’s weeping personality — only upon weeping. It is a strange discovery, not only to others but to oneself.

April, April,
Laugh thy girlish laughter;
Then, the moment after,
Weep thy girlish tears!