Why, This Hath Not A Finger's Dignity.

On Your Eyelids Crown The God Of Sleep, Charming Your Blood With Pleasing Heaviness, Making Such Difference 'twixt Wake And Sleep As Is The Difference Betwixt Day And Night The Hour Before The Heavenly-harness'd Team Begins His Golden Progress In The East.

For I Can Raise No Money By Vile Means.

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.

Trifles Light As Air Are To The Jealous Confirmations Strong As Proofs Of Holy Writ.

Self-love Is The Most Inhibited Sin In The Canon.