Till swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit, His waxen wings did mount above his reach, And, melting, Heavens conspir'd his overthrow.

Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ileum?

Make me immortal with a kiss.

Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?

Religion! O Diabole! Fie, I am asham'd, however that I seem, To think a word of such simple sound, Of such great matter should be made the ground.

Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, And burned is Apollo's laurel bough, That sometime grew within this learned man. Faustus is gone.

We control fifty percent of a relationship. We influence one hundred percent of it.