Everyone has problems.
Coming generations will learn equality from poverty, and love from woes.
You who weep for pleasures fled, While dragging on a life of care, All your woes will melt in air, If to god your tears are shed, You who Weap!
Everybody has problems.
Long exercised in woes.
Riches cover a multitude of woes.
In all the woes that curse our race there is a lady in the case.
I am: yet what I am none cares or knows, My friends forsake me like a memory lost; I am the self-consumer of my woes, They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost; And yet I am, and live with shadows tost.
The sharp experiences of belief in the supposititious life of matter, as well as our disappointments and ceaseless woes, turn us like tired children to the arms of divine Love.
In recounting our woes, we often soothe them.
I am the self-consumer of my woes.
We ourselve are the authors of almost all our woes and griefs, of which we so unreasonably complain.
He who loves 50 people has 50 woes; he who loves no one has no woes.
Woes and wonders of Power, that tonic hell, synthesis of poison and panacea.
Love is a sickness full of woes, all remedies refusing.
