By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap

To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon,

Or dive into the bottom of the deep,

Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,

And pluck up drowned honour by the locks.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry IV. Part I. Act i. 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.

Pluck out the heart of my mystery.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Hamlet. Act iii. Sc. 2.

Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry IV. Part I. Act ii. Sc. 3.

By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap

To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon,

Or dive into the bottom of the deep,

Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,

And pluck up drowned honour by the locks.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry IV. Part I. Act i. Sc. 3.

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,

And with forc'd fingers rude

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.

John Milton (1608-1674): Lycidas. Line 3.