[117]
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 diseas'd;
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow;
Rase 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?[1]
Each of the tyrants alike, in his concern about the feelings of others, clearly reveals the agitation of his own breast.
It is true, that Richard represents the enemy as a troop only of banditti; [2]
