“Yet is there one more cursed than they all, That canker-worm, that monster, jealousie, Which eats the heart and feeds upon the gall, Turning all love’s delight to misery, Through fear of losing his felicity.”

Full little knowest thou that hast not tried, What hell it is in suing long to bide: To loose good dayes, that might be better spent; To waste long nights in pensive discontent; To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow; To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow.

How many perils doe enfold The righteous man to make him daily fall.

For next to Death is Sleepe to be compared; Therefore his house is unto his annext: Here Sleepe, ther Richesse, and hel-gate them both betwext.

Ill can he rule the great that cannot reach the small.

The gentle mind by gentle deeds is known, For a man by nothing is so well betrayed As by his manners.

Waking love suffereth no sleepe: Say, that raging love dothe appall the weake stomacke: Say, that lamenting love marreth the musicall.

All love is sweet Given or returned And its familiar voice wearies not ever.

This iron world bungs down the stoutest hearts to lowest state; for misery doth bravest minds abate.

Thankfulness is the tune of angels.

Together linkt with adamantine chains.

For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.

Those that were up themselves, kept others low; Those that were low themselves, held others hard; He suffered them to ryse or greater grow; But every one did strive his fellow down to throw.

No dainty flower or herbs that grows on ground, No arborett with painted blossoms drest And smelling sweet, but there it might be found To bud out fair, and throw her sweet smells all around.

Fondnesse it were for any being free, To covet fetters, though they golden bee.

Who would ever care to do brave deed, Or strive in virtue others to excel, If none should yield him his deserved meed Due praise, that is the spur of doing well? For if good were not praised more than ill, None would choose goodness of his own free will.

Man’s wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.

This is the curse of our age, even the strangest aberrations are no cure for boredom.

I think cursing is a bunch of malarkey.

Is it a blessing or is it a curse, to feel everything so deeply.

I feel everything to the bottom of its depth maybe its a gift, its probably a curse.

Time might only tell if this will be comfort or a curse.

Without death in the world, existence in it would soon become, through over-population, the most frightful of curses.

I grew up cursing a lot.

If I start going back to church, I’d have to stop the smoking and drinking, and I wouldn’t be able to curse any more.