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.
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Macbeth: How Does Your Patient, Doctor? Doctor:
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.
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