Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest.
Macbeth: Cure her of that. Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart?
Doctor: Therein the patient Must minister to himself.
--Macbeth V.iii
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