I Have Supped Full With Horrors.

What To Ourselves In Passion We Propose, The Passion Ending, Doth The Purpose Lose.

That Affable Familiar Ghost Which Nightly Gulls Him With Intelligence.

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.

Give Them Great Meals Of Beef And Iron And Steel, They Will Eat Like Wolves And Fight Like Devils.

This Is A Way To Kill A Wife With Kindness.