You rub the sore
When you should bring the plaster!

You rub the sore
When you should bring the plaster!

In poison there is physic; and these news,
Having been well, that would have made me sick,
read more

In poison there is physic; and these news,
Having been well, that would have made me sick,
Being sick, have in some measure made me well.

It requires a great deal of faith for a man to be cured by his own placebos.

It requires a great deal of faith for a man to be cured by his own placebos.

But nothing is more estimable than a physician who, having
studied nature from his youth, knows the properties of read more

But nothing is more estimable than a physician who, having
studied nature from his youth, knows the properties of the human
body, the diseases which assail it, the remedies which will
benefit it, exercises his art with caution, and pays equal
attention to the rich and the poor.
- Voltaire (Francois Marie Arouet Voltaire),

One doctor, singly like the sculler plies,
The patient struggles, and by inches dies;
But two physicians, read more

One doctor, singly like the sculler plies,
The patient struggles, and by inches dies;
But two physicians, like a pair of oars,
Waft him right swiftly to the Stygian shores.

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?

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.

For of the most High cometh healing.

For of the most High cometh healing.

(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!