To array a man's will against his sickness is the supreme art of medicine.

To array a man's will against his sickness is the supreme art of medicine.

Who shall decide when doctors disagree,
And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me?

Who shall decide when doctors disagree,
And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me?

The miserable hath no other medicine but only hope

The miserable hath no other medicine but only hope

Better to hunt in fields for health unbought,
Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught.
The read more

Better to hunt in fields for health unbought,
Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught.
The wise for cure on exercise depend;
God never made his work for man to mend.

Physicians, of all men, are most happy: whatever good success
soever they have, the world proclaimeth and what faults read more

Physicians, of all men, are most happy: whatever good success
soever they have, the world proclaimeth and what faults they
commit, the earth covereth.

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.

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.

So liv'd our sires, ere doctors learn'd to kill,
And multiplied with theirs the weekly bill.

So liv'd our sires, ere doctors learn'd to kill,
And multiplied with theirs the weekly bill.

(Macbeth:) How does your patient, doctor?
(Doctor:) Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with read more

(Macbeth:) How does your patient, doctor?
(Doctor:) Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies
That keep her from her rest.
(Macbeth:) Cure her of that!
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory of a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of the perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
(Doctor:) Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.
(Macbeth:) Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it!