Doct. Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest. Macb. Cure her of that. Canst thou not minister to a mind diseasd, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuffd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart? Doct. Therein the patient Must minister to himself. Macb. Throw physic to the dogs: I ll none of it.