So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

This is no time to lend money, especially upon bare friendship without security.

Poor and content, is rich and rich enough; But riches, fineless, is as poor as winter, To him that ever fears he shall be poor.

The Devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape.

Our jovial star reigned at his birth.

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.

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.