Farewell! God Knows When We Shall Meet

Zounds! I Was Never So Bethumped With Words Since I First Called My Brother's Father Dad.

It Is A Heretic That Makes The Fire, Not She Which Burns In It.

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.

There's Beggary In Love That Can Be Reckoned

You Shall More Command With Years Than With Your Weapons.