Love is like a child, That longs for everything it can come by

It warms the very sickness in my heart, That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, "Thus diddest thou;"

Silence is the perfect herald of joy.

Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you

For what I will, I will, and there an end.

Talkers are no good doers.

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.