There is no malice like the malice of the renegade.
Malice scorned, puts out itself; out argued, gives a kind of credit to a false accusation.
Malice sucks up the greater part of her own venom, and poisons herself.
Malice drinks one half of its own poison.
Wit loses its respect with the good when seen in company with malice; to smile at the jest which plants a thorn in another's breast, is to become a principal in the mischief.
Malice, in its false witness, promotes its tale with so cunning a confusion, so mingles truths with falsehoods, surmises with certainties, causes of no moment with matters capital, that the accused can absolutely neither grant nor deny, plead innocence nor confess guilt.
There is no benefit so large that malignity will not lessen it; none so narrow that a good interpretation will not enlarge it.
There is no small degree of malicious craft in fixing upon a season to give a mark of enmity and ill-will; a word—a look, which at one time would make no impression, at another time wounds the heart, and, like a shaft flying with the wind, pierces deep, which, with its own natural force would scarce have reached the object aimed at.
Malice is the devil's picture. Lust makes men brutish; malice makes them devilish—it is mental murder.