Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.
William ShakespeareO, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh
William ShakespeareMacbeth: 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.
William Shakespeare