Out, Out, Brief Candle! Life's

Ay, But To Die, And Go We Know Not Where.

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.

I Almost Die For Food, And Let Me Have It!

I Am But Mad North-north-west. When The Wind Is Southerly, I Know A Hawk From A Handsaw.

I Must Be Gone And Live, Or Stay And Die.