A merry heart doeth good like a medicine: But a broken spirit drieth the bones.
A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance: But by sorrow of the heart the spirit is broken.
Heaviness in the heart of man maketh it stoop: But a good word maketh it glad.
The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity; But a wounded spirit who can bear?
For godly sorrow worketh repentance to salvation not to be repented of: but the sorrow of the world worketh death.
So that contrariwise ye ought rather to forgive him, and comfort him, lest perhaps such a one should be swallowed up with overmuch sorrow.
My strength is dried up like a potsherd; And my tongue cleaveth to my jaws; And thou hast brought me into the dust of death.
Pleasant words are as an honeycomb, Sweet to the soul, and health to the bones.
I said of laughter, It is mad: and of mirth, What doeth it?