All pain is one malady with many names.

Health indeed is a precious thing, to recover and preserve which we undergo any misery, drink bitter potions, freely give our goods—restore a man to his health, his purse lies open to thee.

I am dying with the help of too many physicians.

No families take so little medicine as those of doctors, except those of apothecaries.

To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable.

The doctor occupies a seat in the front row of the stalls of the human drama, and is constantly watching and even intervening in the tragedies, comedies, and tragicomedies which form the raw material of the literary art.

There must be quite a few things a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them.

Keep away from physicians. It is all probing and guessing and pretending with them. They leave it to nature to cure in her own time, but they take the credit. As well as very fat fees.

The poets did well to conjoin music and medicine, because the office of medicine is but to tune the curious harp of man’s body.

Because the newer methods of treatment are good, it does not follow that the old ones were bad: for if our honorable and worshipful ancestors had not recovered from their ailments, you and I would not be here today.

Doctors don’t know everything really. They understand matter, not spirit. And you and I live in spirit.

You can’t find the soul with a scalpel.

He is the best physician who is the most ingenious inspirer of hope.