THE UNTROUBLED MIND 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 antidoteCleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuffWhich weighs upon the heart? Macbeth. When a man tells me he never worries, I am inclined to think that he is either deceiving himself or trying to deceive me. The great roots of worry are conscience,... more...