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.

I firmly believe that if the whole materia medica could be sunk to the bottom of the sea, it would read more

I firmly believe that if the whole materia medica could be sunk to the bottom of the sea, it would be all the better for mankind, and all the worse for the fishes.

"Is there no hope?" the sick man said,
The silent doctor shook his head,
And took his read more

"Is there no hope?" the sick man said,
The silent doctor shook his head,
And took his leave with signs of sorrow,
Despairing of his fee to-morrow.

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.

One of the signs of passing youth is the birth of a sense of
fellowship with other human beings read more

One of the signs of passing youth is the birth of a sense of
fellowship with other human beings as we take our place among
them.

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.

God who sends the wound sends the medicine.
[Sp., Dios que da la llaga, da la medicina.]

God who sends the wound sends the medicine.
[Sp., Dios que da la llaga, da la medicina.]

Constant attention by a good nurse may be just as important as a
major operation by a surgeon.

Constant attention by a good nurse may be just as important as a
major operation by a surgeon.

(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!