“A ministering angel shall my sister be.”

“God shall be my hope, my stay, my guide and lantern to my feet.”

“Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd,Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,Raze out the written troubles of the brain,And with some sweet oblivious antidoteCleanse the stuff'd bosom of the perilous stuffWhich weighs upon the heart?DOCTOR:Therein the patient Must minister to himself.”

“Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him,And all their ministers attend on him.”

“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.”

“Tis in my memory lock'd,And you yourself shall keep the key of it.”

“Conceal me what I am, and be my aid for such disguise as haply shall become the form of my intent.”