Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.

Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus.

One fire burns out another's burning, One pain is lessen'd by another's anguish.

If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then unto me.

Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile, And cry 'content' to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face for all occasions

There is no sure foundation set on blood, No certain life achieved by others' death.

Time travels at different speeds for different people. I can tell you who time strolls for, who it trots for, who it gallops for, and who it stops cold for.