O Judgment ! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason !

in black ink my love may still shine bright.

Life is as tedious as twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.

There is a kind of character in thy life, That to the observer doth thy history, fully unfold.

Season your admiration for a while.

What should we speak of When we are old as you? when we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December? how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse The freezing hours away?

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.