For imaginary woes I have none.

There is a certain class of sentimentalists to whom it is positive joy to be made to weep, and the longer they can pump up the tears the more content they are.

These are people who have never known a heart-sorrow.

They revel in books that end in death, and they listen to the details of a dying-bed scene with ghoulish interest.

Had genuine bereavement ever been theirs, they would find only harrowing pain in such things.
Shallow brooks always gurgle most loudly in passing over the stones underlying them.