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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.

Take physic, pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them And show the heavens more just.

'Tis time to give 'em physic, their diseases Are grown so catching.

But in this point All his tricks founder and he brings his physic After his patient's death: the king already Hath married the fair lady.

Trust not the physician; His antidotes are poison, and he slays More than you rob.

How does your patient, doctor? Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies That keep her from her rest. 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? Therein the patient Must minister to himself. Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it!

In such a night Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew, And saw the lion's shadow ere himself, And ran dismayed away.

I do remember an apothecary, And hereabouts 'a dwells, which late I noted In tatt'red weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of simples. Meagre were his looks, Sharp misery had worn him to the bones; And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, An alligator stuffed, and other skins Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves A beggarly account of empty boxes, Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses Were thinly scattered, to make up a show.

You rub the sore When you should bring the plaster!

When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills, And I must minister the like to you.

By medicine life may be prolonged, yet death will seize the doctor too.

But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft Quenched in the chaste beams of the wat'ry moon, And the imperial vot'ress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free.

He doth entreat your grace, my noble lord, To visit him to-morrow or next day: He is within, with two right reverend fathers, Divinely bent to meditation, And in no worldly suits would he be moved To draw him from his holy exercise.

But now will canker sorrow eat my bud And chase the native beauty from his cheek, And he will look as hollow as a ghost, As dim and meagre as an ague's fit, And so he'll die; and rising so again, When I shall meet him in the court of heaven I shall not know him.

When shall we three meet again In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offense?

Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God, My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.

The mercy that was quick in us but late, By your own counsel is suppressed and killed. You must not dare for shame to talk of mercy; For your own reasons turn into your bosoms As dogs upon their masters, worrying you.

Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so; Pardon is still the nurse of second woe.

The quality of mercy is not strained; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown. His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this scept'red sway; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings; It is an attribute to God himself, And earthly power doth then show likest God's When mercy seasons justice.