“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.”

“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.”

“Thou canst not speak of thou dost not feel.”

“This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.”

“A ministering angel shall my sister be.”

“Alack, there lies more peril in thine eyeThan twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet,And I am proof against their enmity.”

“Villain, what hast thou done?Aaron: That which thou canst not undo.Chiron: Thou hast undone our mother.Aaron: Villain, I have done thy mother.”