Medicine makes people ill, mathematics makes them sad, and theology makes them sinful

Medicine makes people ill, mathematics makes them sad, and theology makes them sinful

Medicine, the only profession that labors incessantly to destroy the reason for its existence.

Medicine, the only profession that labors incessantly to destroy the reason for its existence.

We do not bear sweets; we are recruited by a bitter potion.
[Lat., Dulcia non ferimus; succo renovamus amaro.]

We do not bear sweets; we are recruited by a bitter potion.
[Lat., Dulcia non ferimus; succo renovamus amaro.]

A single doctor likes a sculler plies,
And all his art and all his physic tries;
But read more

A single doctor likes a sculler plies,
And all his art and all his physic tries;
But two physicians, like a pair of oars,
Conduct you soonest to the Stygian shores.

But in this point
All his tricks founder and he brings his physic
After his patient's death: read more

But in this point
All his tricks founder and he brings his physic
After his patient's death: the king already
Hath married the fair lady.

Take a little rum
The less you take the better
Pour it in the lakes
read more

Take a little rum
The less you take the better
Pour it in the lakes
Of Wener or of Wetter.
Dip a spoonful out
And mind you don't get groggy,
Pour it in the lake
Of Winnipissiogie.
Stir the mixture well
Lest it prove inferior,
Then put half a drop
Into Lake Superior.
Every other day
Take a drop in water,
You'll be better soon
Or at least you oughter.

I bought an unction of a mountebank,
So mortal that, but dip a knife in it,
Where read more

I bought an unction of a mountebank,
So mortal that, but dip a knife in it,
Where it draws blood so cataplasm so rare,
Collected from all simples that have virtue
Under the moon, can save the thing from death
That is but scratched withal. I'll touch my point
With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly,
It may be death.

It is infinitely better to transplant a heart than to bury it so it can be devoured by worms.

It is infinitely better to transplant a heart than to bury it so it can be devoured by worms.

You tell your doctor, that y' are ill
And what does he, but write a bill,
Of read more

You tell your doctor, that y' are ill
And what does he, but write a bill,
Of which you need not read one letter,
The worse the scrawl, the dose the better.
For if you knew but what you take,
Though you recover, he must break.