A tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use.
For the poison of hatred seated near the heart doubles the burden for the one who suffers the disease; he is burdened with his own sorrow, and groans on seeing another's happiness.
Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.