The Lady Doth Protest Too Much, Methinks.

For Love, Thou Know'st, Is Full Of Jealousy

His Worst Fault Is, He's Given To Prayer; He Is Something Peevish That Way.

Say She Rail; Why, I'll Tell Her Plain She Sings As Sweetly As A Nightingale. Say That She Frown; I'll Say She Looks As Clear As Morning Roses Newly Wash'd With Dew. Say She Be Mute And Will Not Speak A Word; Then I'll Commend Her Volubility, And Say She Uttereth Piercing Eloquence.

It Is A Basilisk Unto Mine Eye, Kills Me To Look On't.

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.