You feed it all your woes, the ghostly garden grows.
Woe to him who teaches men faster than they can learn.
If the guardian or the mother Tell the woes of willful waste, Scorn their counsel and their pother, You can hang or drown at last.
Friends are a recompense for all the woes of the darkest pages of life.
If you have ever clothed another with woe, as with a garment of pain, you will never be quite as happy as though you had not done that thing.
W'en you see a man in woe, Walk right up and say hullo. Say hullo and how d'ye do, How's the world a-usin' you?. W'en you travel through the strange Country t'other side the range, Then the souls you've cheered will know Who you be, an' say hullo.
And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes.
Reclaiming the belly laugh can cure a world of woes.
I cannot love as I have loved, And yet I know not why; It is the one great woe of life To feel all feeling die.
When one is past, another care we have; Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave.
Woe to the conquered.
Nobody doubts the importance of conscious experience; why then should we doubt the significance of unconscious happenings? They also are part of our life, and sometimes more truly a part of it for weal or woe than any happenings of the day.
Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases the happiness of others, is a just criterion of goodness; and whatever injures society at large, or any individual in it, is a criterion of iniquity.
The cause of the world's woe is birth, the cure of the world's woe is a bent stick.
Compromise, hell! That's what has happened to us all down the line -- and that's the very cause of our woes. If freedom is right and tyranny is wrong, why should those who believe in freedom treat it as if it were a roll of bologna to be bartered a slice at a time?
And woe succeeds woe.
Anger and just rebuke, and judgment given, That brought into this world a world of woe, Sin and her shadow Death, and Misery, Death's harbinger.
Thou hast been called, O sleep! the friend of woe; But 't is the happy that have called thee so.
So many miseries have craz'd my voice, That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.