Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,
That keep her from her rest.
Act v. Sc. 3.
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 the heart?
Act v. Sc, 3.
Throw physic to the dogs: I'll none of it.
Act v. Sc. 3.
I would applaud thee to the very echo,
That should applaud again.
Act v, Sc. 5.
Hang out our banners on the outward walls;
The cry is still, They come.