Things that are not at all, are never lost.
You stars that reigned at my nativity, whose influence hath allotted death and hell.
I'm armed with more than complete steel, - The justice of my quarrel.
Confess and be hanged.
It lies not in our power to love or hate, for will in us is overruled by fate.
Till swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit, His waxen wings did mount above his reach, And, melting, Heavens conspir'd his overthrow.