| C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917. | | | | Woe |
| | | A world of woes despatched in little space. Dryden. | 1 |
| Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave. Herrick. | 2 |
| He scorns his own who feels anothers woe. Campbell. | 3 |
| One woe doth tread upon anothers heel, so fast they follow. Shakespeare. | 4 |
| | No words suffice the secret soul to show, |
| And truth denies all eloquence to woe. |
Byron. | 5 |
| | Woes cluster; rare are solitary woes; |
| They love a train, they tread each others heel. |
Young. | 6 |
| | So many miseries have crazd my voice, |
| That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute. |
Shakespeare. | 7 |
| My languid numbers have forgot to flow, and fancy sinks beneath a weight of woe. Pope. | 8 |
| The grateful tear that streams for others woes. Akenside. | 9 |
| Alas! by some degree of woe we every bliss must gain. Lord Lyttleton. | 10 |
| Dependants, friends, relations, love himself, ravaged by woe, forget the tender tie. Thomson. | 11 |
| It becomes one, while exempt from woes, to look to the dangers. Sophocles. | 12 |
| Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train, swells at my heart, and turns the past to pain. Goldsmith. | 13 |
| Not suffering, but faint heart, is worst of woes. Lowell. | 14 |
| O Fortune, how thy restless, wavering state has fraught with cares my troubled wit! Queen Elizabeth. | 15 |
| When we our betters see bearing our woes, we scarcely think our miseries our foes. Shakespeare. | 16 |
| But I have that within, which passeth show; these but the trappings and the suits of woe. Shakespeare. | 17 |
| Tell me, when shall these weary woes have end? or shall their ruthless torment never cease? Spenser. | 18 |
| Wise men neer sit and wail their woes, but presently prevent the ways to wail. Shakespeare. | 19 |
| Woe unto you when all men speak well of you. Bible. | 20 |
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| No scene of mortal life but teems with mortal woe. Sir Walter Scott. | 21 |
| My thoughts, imprisoned in my secret woes, with flamy breaths do issue oft in sound. Sir P. Sidney. | 22 |
| By woe the soul to daring action steals; by woe in plaintless patience it excels. Savage. | 23 |
| Woe for my vine-clad home, that it should ever be so dark to me, with its bright threshold and its whispering tree! N. P. Willis. | 24 | | |
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