I am a feather for each wind that blows

O sir, you are old; nature in you stands on the very verge of her confine; you should be ruled and led by some discretion, that discerns your fate better than you yourself.

Though justice be thy plea consider this, that in the course of justice none of us should see salvation.

Alas, that love, so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof! *It’s sad. Love looks like a nice thing, but it’s actually very rough when you experience it.*

He that dies this year is quit for the next.

Appetite, a universal wolf.

Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.