I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursued my humor not pursuing his, And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.

I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.

He that sleeps feels not the tooth-ache

I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man.

The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo.

Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on his back.

Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.