It would be the drop of gall in his cup of joy.
"Boyhood in Norway" by Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen
The Stetsons, too, disbanded, and on the way home a last drop of gall ran Rome's cup of bitterness over.
"A Cumberland Vendetta" by John Fox, Jr.
Now it only added more gall to his cup.
"The Last Chronicle of Barset" by Anthony Trollope
I have eaten of the bread of bitterness this day, and drunk of the cup of gall.
"Told in the East" by Talbot Mundy
You, at least, have n't that gall and wormwood added to your cup.
"The Cardinal's Snuff-Box" by Henry Harland
My sad days bring worse nights, and every hour Fills me some cup of gall and brims it o'er.
"The Elegies of Tibullus" by Tibullus
But this other attitude is the gall in the cup.
"Principles of Freedom" by Terence J. MacSwiney
To her, indeed, this cup was doubly bitter, for it was mingled with the gall of remorse.
"Fifty-Two Stories For Girls" by Various
It is a cup of gall and wormwood, but I'll take it.
"The Pagan Madonna" by Harold MacGrath
Alas, thy cup was full of gall; Unto a foreign land thou sacrificedst all.
"Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol 58, No. 357, July 1845" by Various
Ah, serpent in our Paradise!
In choicest cup our gall!
'Twas thou, distraught Anxiety,
Wrapped Beauty's self in pall;
"A Ballad Of 1812" by Sarah Anne Curzon
O, my soul! art 'bove alarm,
Quaffing thus the cup of gall--
Canst thou face the grave with calm?--
"Yes, the Christians smile at all."
"Then, Most, I Smile" by Victor Marie Hugo
Is it the drops that, from his breast
Into the thirsty furrow fall,
That scald his soul, deny him rest,
And turn his cup of life to gall?
"The Chain" by John Pierpont
’Twas thus He suffered, though a Son,
Foreknowing, choosing, feeling all,
Until the perfect work was done,
And drunk the bitter cup of gall.
"How shall I follow Him I serve?" by Josiah Conder
'Tis a cup of wormwood and gall,
When the doom of a great man is said;
And the best of a man is under a pall
When the best of his dreams is dead.
"Ghosts of Dreams" by William Herbert Carruth
Fondly to myself I pictured all his much-prized honours won,
Earnest of the future harvests that the years would open up;
Caught a hundred whispers rising with this burden still, "our son;"
O! a mother's joy has not one drop of gall within the cup.
"The First-Foot" by Alexander Anderson