“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.”

“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.”

“Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.”

“Tell me, sweet lord, what is ’t that takes from theeThy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep?Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earthAnd start so often when thou sit’st alone?Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeksAnd given my treasures and my rights of theeTo thick-eyed musing and curst melancholy?”

“He jests at scars that never felt a wound.But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,Who is already sick and pale with grief,That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.Be not her maid since she is envious.Her vestal livery is but sick and green,And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off!It is my lady. Oh, it is my love.Oh, that she knew she were!She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?Her eye discourses. I will answer it.—I am too bold. 'Tis not to me she speaks.Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,Having some business, do entreat her eyesTo twinkle in their spheres till they return.What if her eyes were there, they in her head?The brightness of her cheek would shame those starsAs daylight doth a lamp. Her eye in heavenWould through the airy region stream so brightThat birds would sing and think it were not night.See how she leans her cheek upon her hand.Oh, that I were a glove upon that handThat I might touch that cheek!”

“There's some ill planet reigns:I must be patient till the heavens lookWith an aspect more favourable. Good my lords,I am not prone to weeping, as our sexCommonly are; the want of which vain dewPerchance shall dry your pities: but I haveThat honourable grief lodged here which burnsWorse than tears drown: beseech you all, my lords,With thoughts so qualified as your charitiesShall best instruct you, measure me; and soThe king's will be perform'd!”

“Come, you spiritsThat tend on mortal thoughts! Unsex me here,And fill me from the crown to the toe top fullOf direst cruelty; make thick my blood,Stop up the access and passage to remorse,That no compunctious visitings of natureShake my fell purpose, nor keep peace betweenThe effect and it! Come to my woman’s breasts,And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,Wherever in your sightless substancesYou wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick night,And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,Nor Heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,To cry "Hold, hold!”