Heard so oft

In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge

Of battle.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book i. Line 275.

That's a perilous shot out of an elder-gun.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry V. Act iv. Sc. 1.

  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.