This Feather Stirs; She Lives! If It

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.

Time Doth Transfix The Flourish Set On Youth And Delves The Parallels In Beauty's Brow.

Now, God Be Praised, That To Believing Souls Gives Light In Darkness, Comfort In Despair.

After Your Death You Were Better Have A Bad Epitaph Than Their Ill Report While You Live.

We Cannot All Be Masters, Nor All Masters Cannot Be Truly Followed.