Like Madness, Is The Glory Of This

I Cannot Speak Your England.

There Is Little Choice In A Barrel Of Rotten Apples.

The Gallantry Of His Grief Did Put Me Into A Towering Passion.

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.

Your Worm Is Your Only Emperor For Diet; We Fat All Creatures Else To Fat Us, And We Fat Ourselves For Maggots.