For this relief much thanks: 't is bitter cold,

And I am sick at heart.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Hamlet. Act i. 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.

Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigued, I said;

Tie up the knocker! say I'm sick, I'm dead.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 1.

This night methinks is but the daylight sick.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): The Merchant of Venice. Act v. Sc. 1.