Quotes
Quotes about Art
A single doctor likes a sculler plies, And all his art and all his physic tries; But two physicians, like a pair of oars, Conduct you soonest to the Stygian shores.
This is the way that physicians mend or end us, Secundum artem: but although we sneer In health--when ill, we call them to attend us, Without the least propensity to jeer.
Because all the sick do not recover, therefore medicine is not an art. [Lat., Aegri quia non omnes convalescunt, idcirco ars nulla medicina est.]
Even as a Surgeon, minding off to cut Some cureless limb, before in use he put His violent Engins on the vicious member, Bringeth his Patient in a senseless slumber, And grief-less then (guided by use and art), To save the whole, sawes off th' infected part. - Guillaume de Salluste Du Bartas,
So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art By doctor's bills to play the doctor's part, Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.
Physicians, of all men, are most happy: whatever good success soever they have, the world proclaimeth and what faults they commit, the earth covereth.
(Macbeth:) How does your patient, doctor? (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 diseased, Pluck from the memory of a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuffed bosom of the perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart? (Doctor:) Therein the patient Must minister to himself. (Macbeth:) Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it!
I do remember an apothecary, And hereabouts 'a dwells, which late I noted In tatt'red weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of simples. Meagre were his looks, Sharp misery had worn him to the bones; And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, An alligator stuffed, and other skins Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves A beggarly account of empty boxes, Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses Were thinly scattered, to make up a show.
He (Tiberius) was wont to mock at the arts of physicians, and at those who, after thirty years of age, needed counsel as to what was good or bad for their bodies.
But nothing is more estimable than a physician who, having studied nature from his youth, knows the properties of the human body, the diseases which assail it, the remedies which will benefit it, exercises his art with caution, and pays equal attention to the rich and the poor. - Voltaire (Francois Marie Arouet Voltaire),
To array a man's will against his sickness is the supreme art of medicine.
Water, air, and cleanness are the chief articles in my pharmacy.
It is infinitely better to transplant a heart than to bury it so it can be devoured by worms.
Great innovators and original thinkers and artists attract the wrath of mediocrities as lightning rods draw the flashes.
Great innovators and original thinkers and artists attract the wrath of mediocrities as lightning.
Happy the heart that keeps its twilight hour, And, in the depths of heavenly peace reclined, Loves to commune with thoughts of tender power,-- A shining Jacob's-ladder of the mind!
Still your mind in me, still yourself in me, and without a doubt you shall be united with me, Lord of Love, dwelling in your heart.
As drifting logs of wood may haply meet On ocean's waters surging to and fro, And having met, drift once again apart, So, fleeting is the intercourse of men. E'en as a traveler meeting with the shade Of some o'erhung tree, awhile reposes, Then leaves its shelter to pursue his ways, So men meet friends, then part with them for ever.
As two floating planks meet and part on the sea, O friend! so I met and then drifted from thee.
Like a plank of driftwood Tossed on the watery main, Another plank encountered, Meets, touches, parts again; So tossed, and drifting ever, On life's unresting sea, Men meet, and greet, and sever, Parting eternally.
As vessels starting from ports thousands of miles apart pass close to each other in the naked breadth of the ocean, nay, sometimes even touch in the dark.
And soon, too soon, we part with pain, To sail o'er silent seas again.
Alas, by what rude fate Our lives, like ships at sea, an instant meet, Then part forever on their courses fleet.
When the heart grieves over what is has lost, the spirit rejoices over what it has left.
Great joy, especially after a sudden change of circumstances, is apt to be silent, and dwells rather in the heart than on the tongue.
