Lions Make Leopards Tame.

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.

Each Present Joy Or Sorrow Seems The Chief.

Beauty Provoketh Thieves Sooner Than Gold.

There Is No Slander In An Allowed Fool, Though He Do Nothing But Rail.

And I Will Make It Felony To Drink Small Beer.