Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow

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.

Well, God's above all; and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved.

O, how full of briers is this working-day world!

If the masses can love without knowing why, they also hate without much foundation.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.