Only he is fit to preach who cannot avoid preaching, who feels that woe is upon him unless he preach the gospel
No scene of mortal life but teems with mortal woe.
In recounting our woes, we often soothe them.
The soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of hopeless lovers.
Can I see another's woe, and not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, and not seek for kind relief?
If, as you believe there is an Almighty, Omnipresent, Omniscient God, who created the earth or universe, please let me know, first of all, as to why he created this world. This world which is full of woe and grief, and countless miseries, where not even one person lives in peace. . . . Where is God? What is He doing? Is He getting a diseased pleasure out of it? A Nero! A Genghis Khan! Down with Him!
Woe to the Revolution when the day comes, when the people, overburdened by contributions and consumed by abuses, turn to their enemies for salvation!
And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
Woe to those who lead idle lives. Idleness is a dreadful illness and must be cured in childhood. If it is not cured then, it can never be cured.
Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes; They love a train, they tread each other's heel.
Headstrong liberty is lashed with woe.