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There is no such sport as sport by sport o'erthrown.

William Shakespeare

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William Shakespeare
Age: 51 †
Born: 1564
Born: April 26
Died: 1616
Died: April 23
Actor
Dramaturge
Playwright
Poet
Stage Actor
Writer
Stratford-upon-Avon
Warwickshire
Shakespeare
The Bard
The Bard of Avon
William Shakspere
Swan of Avon
Bard of Avon
Shakespere
Shakespear
Shakspeare
Shackspeare
William Shake‐ſpeare
Sport
Sports

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Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up Thine own life's means!
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You'd be so lean, that blast of January Would blow you through and through. Now, my fair'st friend, I would I had some flowers o' the spring that might Become your time of day.
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Love`s reason`s without reason
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If there were reason for these miseries, then into limits could I bind my woes. If the winds rages, doth not the sea wax mad, threat'ning the welkin with its big-swoll'n face? And wilt though have a reason for this coil? I am the sea. Hark how her sighs doth blow. She is the weeping welkin, I the earth.
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Examine well your blood.
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If [God] send me no husband, for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening.
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Never he will not: Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety: other women cloy The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies.
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Our very eyes Are sometimes, like our judgments, blind.
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How sometimes nature will betray its folly, Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime To harder bosoms!
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I am thy father's spirit Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night And, for the day, confin'd to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature, Are burnt and purg'd away.
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Be as thou wast wont to be. See as thou wast wont to see.
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Gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, I gain'd my freedom.
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They lie deadly that tell you have good faces.
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Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.
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Alas, their love may be call'd appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate
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And I will make it felony to drink small beer.
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There's such divinity doth hedge a king That treason can but peep to what it would.
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Conscience doth make cowards of us all.
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What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted! Thrice is he arm'd, that hath his quarrel just.
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Why what a fool was I to this drunken monster for a God. - Caliban
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