(Macbeth:) How does your patient, doctor?
(Doctor:) Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with read more

(Macbeth:) How does your patient, doctor?
(Doctor:) Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies
That keep her from her rest.
(Macbeth:) Cure her of that!
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory of a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of the perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
(Doctor:) Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.
(Macbeth:) Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it!

You tell your doctor, that y' are ill
And what does he, but write a bill,
Of read more

You tell your doctor, that y' are ill
And what does he, but write a bill,
Of which you need not read one letter,
The worse the scrawl, the dose the better.
For if you knew but what you take,
Though you recover, he must break.

Trust not the physician;
His antidotes are poison, and he slays
More than you rob.

Trust not the physician;
His antidotes are poison, and he slays
More than you rob.

There is no medicine like hope, no incentive so great, and no tonic so powerful as expectation of something better read more

There is no medicine like hope, no incentive so great, and no tonic so powerful as expectation of something better tomorrow

I have heard that Tiberius used to say that that man was
ridiculous, who after sixth years, appealed to read more

I have heard that Tiberius used to say that that man was
ridiculous, who after sixth years, appealed to a physician.

Laughter is the best medicine.

Laughter is the best medicine.

And in requital ope his leathern scrip,
And show me simples of a thousand names,
Telling their read more

And in requital ope his leathern scrip,
And show me simples of a thousand names,
Telling their strange and vigorous faculties.

You rub the sore
When you should bring the plaster!

You rub the sore
When you should bring the plaster!

I bought an unction of a mountebank,
So mortal that, but dip a knife in it,
Where read more

I bought an unction of a mountebank,
So mortal that, but dip a knife in it,
Where it draws blood so cataplasm so rare,
Collected from all simples that have virtue
Under the moon, can save the thing from death
That is but scratched withal. I'll touch my point
With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly,
It may be death.