May be he is not well. Infirmity doth neglect all office Whereto our health is bound.

Give a man health and a course to steer, and he'll never stop to trouble about whether he's happy or not.

This is the very ecstasy of love,
Whose violent property fordoes itself
And leads the will to desperate undertakings
As oft as any passion under heaven
That does afflict our natures.

Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor?

Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest.

Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart.

Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.

He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse's health, a boy's love, or a whore's oath.

Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!. . . This love feel I.