I am a feather for each wind that blows

Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail, And say there is no sin but to be rich; And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary

Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?

Love sees with the heart and not with mind.

Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror

I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching.

The weakest goes to the wall.