It is the stars, The stars above us, govern our conditions.

The will is deaf and hears no heedful friends.

Bassanio: Do all men kill all the things they do not love? Shylock: Hates any man the thing he would not kill? Bassanio: Every offence is not a hate at first.

And since you know you cannot see yourself, so well as by reflection, I, your glass, will modestly discover to yourself, that of yourself which you yet know not of.

'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, but to support them after.

Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?

That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold; What hath quenched them hath given me fire.