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

It is thyself, mine own self's better part; Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart; My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim, My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Adieu! I have too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave.

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

Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.

What we determine we often break. Purpose is but the slave to memory.