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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.
We have to ask ourselves whether medicine is to remain a humanitarian and respected profession or a new but depersonalized read more
We have to ask ourselves whether medicine is to remain a humanitarian and respected profession or a new but depersonalized science in the service of prolonging life rather than diminishing human suffering.
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.
And in requital ope his leathern scrip,
And show me simples of a thousand names,
Telling their read more
And in requital ope his leathern scrip,
And show me simples of a thousand names,
Telling their strange and vigorous faculties.
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),
Better use medicines at the outset than at the last moment.
Better use medicines at the outset than at the last moment.
In such a night
Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew,
And saw the lion's shadow ere himself,
read more
In such a night
Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew,
And saw the lion's shadow ere himself,
And ran dismayed away.
(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!
