Who can control his fate?
The instruments of darkness tell us truths.
They that touch pitch will be defiled.
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me; Is't not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?
Come not within the measure of my wrath.
A little fire is quickly trodden out, Which, being suffer'd, rivers cannot quench.