Sweets To The Sweet.

They That Stand High Have Many Blasts To Shake Them.

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.

As I Love The Name Of Honour More Than I Fear Death.

I Hate The Murderer, Love Him Murdered.

When A Father Gives To His Son, Both Laugh; When A Son Gives To His Father, Both Cry.