By That Sin Fell The Angels.

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.

The World Is Grown So Bad, That Wrens Make Prey Where Eagles Dare Not Perch.

Passion Makes The Will Lord Of The Reason.

Where I Could Not Be Honest, I Never Yet Was Valiant.

Time Is The Old Justice That Examines All Such Offenders, And Let Time Try.