The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.
The die is cast.
Every man has but one destiny.
Some men are born to good luck: all they do or try to do comes right - all that falls to them is so much gain - all their geese are swans.
I am Death, and I make all equal.
It lies not in our power to love or hate, for will in us is overruled by fate.
I hold the Fates bound fast in iron chains, and with my hand turn Fortune's wheel about.
