Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.

Well, I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking; I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent.

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women mearly players.

God bless thee; and put meekness in thy breast, Love, charity, obedience, and true duty!

Set your heart at rest. The fairyland buys not the child of me.

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.

Quote: What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?