ShakespeareThe malignancy of my fate might perhaps distemper yours.
1902, Arthur Conan Doyle, The Hound of the Baskervilles, A cold wind swept down from it and set us shivering. Somewhere there, on that desolate plain, was lurking this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow like a wild beast, his heart full of malignancy against the whole race which had cast him out.