Love Goes Toward Love.

But Yet, I Say, If Imputation And Strong Circumstances, Which Lead Directly To The Door Of Truth, Will Give You Satisfaction, You May Have It.

Macbeth: How Does Your Patient, Doctor? Doctor: Not So Sick, My Lord, As She Is Troubled With Thick-coming Fancies That Keep Her From Rest. Macbeth: Cure Her Of That! Canst Thou Not Minister To A Mind Diseased, Pluck From The Memory A Rooted Sorrow, Raze Out The Written Troubles Of The Brain, And With Some Sweet Oblivious Antidote Cleanse The Stuffed Bosom Of That Perilous Stuff Which Weighs Upon Her Heart. Doctor: Therein The Patient Must Minister To Himself.

Now, By The World, It Is A Lusty Wench; I Love Her Ten Times More Than E'er I Did: O, How I Long To Have Some Chat With Her!

No Might Nor Greatness In Mortality Can Censure 'scape; Back- Wounding Calumny The Whitest Virtue Strikes. What King So Strong Can Tie The Gall Up In The Slanderous Tongue?

Hardness Ever Of Hardness Is Mother.