Past All Shame, So Past All Truth.

When We Our Betters See Bearing Our Woes, We Scarcely Think Our Miseries Our Foes.

Yet Do I Fear Thy Nature; It Is Too Full O' The Milk Of Human Kindness.

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.

Here's Flowers For You; Hot Lavender, Mints, Savoury, Marjoram; The Marigold, That Goes To Bed Wi' The Sun And With Him Rises Weeping: These Are Flowers Of Middle Summer, And I Think They Are Given To Men Of Middle Age.

Lord, I Could Not Endure A Husband With A Beard On His Face! I Had Rather Lie In The Woolen.