C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.

Curse

A curse is like a cloud—it passes.

Bailey.

Curses are like young chickens,
And still come home to roost!

Lytton.

We let our blessings get mouldy, and then call them curses.

Beecher.

Oh! I will curse thee till thy frighted soul
Runs mad with horror.

Lee.

Down to the dust! and as thou rott’st away,
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.

Byron.

All the infections that the sun sucks up
From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him
By inch-meal a disease!

Shakespeare.

Whip me, ye devils,
Blow me about in winds, roast me in sulphur,
Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire.

Shakespeare.

May the grass wither from thy feet; the woods
Deny thee shelter! earth a home! the dust
A grave! the sun his light! and heaven her God!

Byron.

Plagues and palsy,
Disease and pestilence consume the robber,
Infect his blood, and wither ev’ry pow’r.

Brown.

But no, I will not curse them: thro’ the world
A curse will follow them, like the black plague,
Tracking their footsteps ever—day and night,
Morning and eve, summer and winter—ever.

Proctor.

Dinna curse him, sir; I have heard a good man say that a curse was like a stone flung up to the heavens, and maist like to return on his head that sent it.

Walter Scott.

You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames
Into her scornful eyes!—Infect her beauty,
You fen-suck’d fogs, drawn by the powerful sun,
To fall and blister her pride!

Shakespeare.

Villains, vipers, damn’d without redemption;
Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man;
Snakes in my heart-blood warm’d, that sting my heart;
Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas.

Shakespeare.

May never glorious sun reflex his beams
Upon the country where you make abode!
But darkness and the gloomy shade of death
Environ you till mischief and despair
Drive you to break your necks, or hang yourselves.

Shakespeare.

Poison be their drink!
Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest meat that they taste!—
Their softest touch as smart as lizards’ stings!
Their music frightful as the serpent’s hiss!
And boding screech-owls make the concert full!

Shakespeare.

All the contagion of the south light on you,
You shames of Rome! you herd of—boils and plagues
Plaster you o’er; that you may be abhorr’d
Further than seen, and one infect another
Against the wind a mile!

Shakespeare.

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