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.

Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come

Cursed be the hand that made these fatal holes.

Sweets grown common lose their dear delight.

...an old man is twice a child.

He kills her in her own humor.

He that is robbed, not wanting what is stolen, him not know t, and he's not robbed at all.