My Love Is As A

Affliction Is Enamoured Of Thy Parts, And Thou Art Wedded To Calamity.

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.

For I Am He Am Born To Tame You, Kate; And Bring You From A Wild Kate To A Kate Conformable As Other Household Kates.

So Sweet Was Ne'er So Fatal. I Must Weep. But They Are Creul Tears. This Sorrow's Heavenly; It Strikes Where It Doth Love.

The First Thing We Do, Let's Kill All The Lawyers.