The Insolence Of Office.

What Should We Speak Of When We Are Old As You? When We Shall Hear The Rain And Wind Beat Dark December? How, In This Our Pinching Cave, Shall We Discourse The Freezing Hours Away?

Here Feel We But The Penalty Of Adam, The Seasons' Difference, As The Icy Fang And Churlish Chiding Of The Winter's Wind, Which, When It Bites And Blows Upon My Body, Even Till I Shrink With Cold, I Smile.

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.

Let Them Obey That Knows Not How To Rule.

That But This Blow Might Be The Be-all And The End-all Here, But Here, Upon This Bank And Shoal Of Time, We'ld Jump The Life To Come.