Much Rain Wears The Marble.

Who Is So Firm That Can't Be Seduced?

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.

Let Me Be Boiled To Death With Melancholy.

Not Stepping Over The Bounds Of Modesty.

Unhappy That I Am, I Cannot Heave My Heart Into My Mouth.