Things that are not at all, are never lost.
Till swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit, His waxen wings did mount above his reach, And, melting, Heavens conspir'd his overthrow.
Confess and be hanged.
You stars that reigned at my nativity, whose influence hath allotted death and hell.
Jigging veins of rhyming mother wits.
We control fifty percent of a relationship. We influence one hundred percent of it.