Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust, destroy our friends and after weep their dust

From All’s Well That Ends Well (5.3.58):

but love that comes too late,
Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried,
To the great sender turns a sour offence,
Crying, ‘That’s good that’s gone.’ Our rash faults
Make trivial price of serious things we have,
Not knowing them until we know their grave:
Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust,
Destroy our friends and after weep their dust.
Our own love, waking, cries to see what’s done,
While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon.

The last line has a notable alternate reading – curiously not acknowledge by the editors of the Arden 3rd – ‘shame full late’…

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