O, he's a limb that has but a disease: Mortal, to cut it off; to cure it, easy.

Before the curing of a strong disease, Even in the instant of repair and health, The fit is strongest. Evils that take leave, On their departure most of all show evil.

I'll forbear; And am fallen out with my more headier will To take the indisposed and sickly fit For the sound man.

This apoplexy, as I take it, is a kind of lethargy, an't please your lordship, a kind of sleeping in the blood, a whoreson tingling.

Diseases desperate grown By desparate appliance are relieved, Or not at all.

The fear of life is the favorite disease of the twentieth century.