But words are words; I never yet did hearThat the bruised heart was pierced through the ear.

A wretched soul bruised with adversity,We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;But were we burdened with like weight of pain,As much, or more, we should ourselves complain.

These words are razors to my wounded heart.

Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.

A jest's prosperity lies in the ear of him that hears it, never in the tongue of him who makes it

I understand a fury in your words,
But not the words.