Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place,

With one fair spirit for my minister,

That I might all forget the human race,

And hating no one, love but only her!

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 177.

But touch me, and no minister so sore;

Whoe'er offends at some unlucky time

Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme,

Sacred to ridicule his whole life long,

And the sad burden of some merry song.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Satires, Epistles, and Odes of Horace. Satire i. Book ii. Line 76.

Put out the light, and then put out the light:

If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,

I can again thy former light restore

Should I repent me; but once put out thy light,

Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,

I know not where is that Promethean heat

That can thy light relume.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Othello. Act v. Sc. 2.

  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 diseas'd,

Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,

Raze 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?

  Doct.        Therein the patient

Must minister to himself.

  Macb.  Throw physic to the dogs: I 'll none of it.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Macbeth. Act v. Sc. 3.

  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 diseas'd,

Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,

Raze 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?

  Doct.        Therein the patient

Must minister to himself.

  Macb.  Throw physic to the dogs: I 'll none of it.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Macbeth. Act v. Sc. 3.