Let never day nor night unhallowed pass, but still remember what the Lord hath done.

Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.

We few. We happy few. We band of brothers, for he today That sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother.

This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas; And utters it again when God doth please: He is wit's pedler; and retails his wares.

Religious canons, civil laws, are cruel; then what should war be?

Make passionate my sense of hearing.

Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart. Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.