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Who worse than a physician Would this report become? But I consider By med'cine life may be prolonged, yet death Will seize the doctor too. How ended she?

I bought an unction of a mountebank, So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood so cataplasm so rare, Collected from all simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death That is but scratched withal. I'll touch my point With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly, It may be death.

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.

There is at bottom only one genuinely scientific treatment for all diseases, and that is to stimulate the phagocytes.

A disorderly patient makes the physician cruel.

Better use medicines at the outset than at the last moment.

He was wont to mock at the arts of physicians, and at those who, after thirty years of age, needed counsel as to what was good or bad for their bodies.

The medicine increases the disease.

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 ,

One of the signs of passing youth is the birth of a sense of fellowship with other human beings as we take our place among them.

To array a man's will against his sickness is the supreme art of medicine.