Examples of using "Pleurs" in a sentence and their english translations:
She burst out crying.
She answered with tears.
weeping system women's rights
Your eyes are red with crying.
He told his story in tears.
He stopped crying.
Sami doesn't deserve your tears.
She parted from her friend in tears.
Girl: (Crying) I -- I don't know.
A girl stood there crying.
She burst into tears.
She parted from her friend in tears.
That day, her parents asked us, in tears,
He spoke so eloquently that the audience were all moved to tears.
the condemnation of our crying disappears for both men and women.
She burst out crying.
She told her story in tears.
"So, moved at length to pity by his tears, / we spare him."
A girl stood there crying.
He stopped crying.
This morning, I woke up yet again to the sound of crying children.
I feel the flow of tears that I want to retain; the past torments me, and I fear the future.
Tears ensue, / and wailing, shrill as though her heart would bleed.
Oh, who hath tears to match our grief withal? / What tongue that night of havoc can make known?
To him, such cares revolving in his breast, / her shining eyes suffused with tears, came nigh / fair Venus, for her darling son distrest, / and thus in sorrowing tones the Sire of heaven addressed.
But when in youthful arms came Priam near, / "Ah, hapless lord!" she cries, "what mad desire / arms thee for battle? Why this sword and spear? / And whither art thou hurrying?"
So wailed Creusa, and in wild despair / filled all the palace with her sobs and cries, / when lo! a portent, wondrous to declare. / For while, 'twixt sorrowing parents' hands and eyes, / stood young Iulus, wildered with surprise, / up from the summit of his fair, young head / a tuft was seen of flickering flame to rise. / Gently and harmless to the touch it spread / around his tender brows, and on his temples fed.
"See our Priam! Even here / worth wins her due, and there are tears to flow, / and human hearts to feel for human woe."
All mourned, but good AEneas mourned the most, / and bitter tears for Amycus he shed, / Gyas, Cloanthus, bravest of his host, / Lycus, Orontes bold, all counted with the lost.
But gladly sire Anchises hails the sign, / and gazing upward through the starlit air, / his hands and voice together lifts in prayer: / "O Jove omnipotent, dread power benign, / if aught our piety deserve, if e'er / a suppliant move thee, hearken and incline / this once, and aid us now and ratify thy sign."
Uprose the image of my father dear, / as there I see the monarch, bathed in blood, / like him in prowess and in age his peer. / Uprose Creusa, desolate and drear, / Iulus' peril, and a plundered home.
So spake he, on his purpose firmly bent. / We – wife, child, family and I – with prayer / and tears entreat the father to relent, / nor doom us all the common wreck to share, / and urge the ruin that the Fates prepare.
Nor hath vengeance found / none save the Trojans; there the victors groan, / and valour fires the vanquished. All around / wailings, and wild affright and shapes of death abound.
Once more I girt me with the sword and shield, / and forth had soon into the battle hied, / when lo, Creusa at the doorway kneeled, / and reached Iulus to his sire and cried:
So to his shade, with funeral rites, we rear / a mound, and altars to the dead prepare, / wreathed with dark cypress. Round them, as of yore, / pace Troy's sad matrons, with their streaming hair. / Warm milk from bowls, and holy blood we pour, / and thrice with loud farewell the peaceful shade deplore.
Scarce now the summer had begun, when straight / my father, old Anchises, gave command / to spread our canvas and to trust to Fate. / Weeping, I leave my native port, the land, / the fields where once the Trojan towers did stand, / and, homeless, launch upon the boundless brine, / heart-broken outcast, with an exiled band, / comrades, and son, and household gods divine, / and the great Gods of Troy, the guardians of our line.
"Ah, mother mine!" he chides her, as she flies, / "art thou, then, also cruel? Wherefore cheat / thy son so oft with images and lies? / Why may I not clasp hands, and talk without disguise?"
With various talks the night poor Dido wore, / and drank deep love, and nursed her inward flame, / of Priam much she asks, of Hector more, / now in what arms Aurora's offspring came, / of Diomede's horses and Achilles' fame.
Within a grove Andromache that day, / where Simois in fancy flowed again, / her offerings chanced at Hector's grave to pay, / a turf-built cenotaph, with altars twain, / source of her tears and sacred to the slain – / and called his shade.