When Lenity And Cruelty Play For A

More Can I Bear Than You Dare Execute.

Say, Thou Art Mine; And Ever, My Love, As It Begins, Shall So Persevere

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.

We Should Hold Day With The Antipodes, If You Would Walk In Absence Of The Sun.

I Wasted Time, And Now Doth Time Waste Me.