Quotes
Quotes about Fate
For we by conquest, of our soveraine might,
And by eternall doome of Fate's decree,
Have wonne the Empire of the Heavens bright.
'T is but the fate of place, and the rough brake
That virtue must go through.
Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus, and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs and peep about
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
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.
I 'll make assurance double sure,
And take a bond of fate.
My fate cries out,
And makes each petty artery in this body
As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve.
Our wills and fates do so contrary run
That our devices still are overthrown.
The young gentleman, according to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning, is indeed deceased; or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven.
This principle is old, but true as fate,--
Kings may love treason, but the traitor hate.
Man is his own star; and the soul that can
Render an honest and a perfect man
Commands all light, all influence, all fate.
Nothing to him falls early, or too late.
Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,
Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hands on kings.
That eagle's fate and mine are one,
Which on the shaft that made him die
Espied a feather of his own,
Wherewith he wont to soar so high.
In discourse more sweet;
For eloquence the soul, song charms the sense.
Others apart sat on a hill retir'd,
In thoughts more elevate, and reason'd high
Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate,
Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute;
And found no end, in wand'ring mazes lost.
He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
That dares not put it to the touch
To gain or lose it all.
For those whom God to ruin has design'd,
He fits for fate, and first destroys their mind.
Arms and the man I sing, who, forced by fate
And haughty Juno's unrelenting hate.
Of no distemper, of no blast he died,
But fell like autumn fruit that mellow'd long,--
Even wonder'd at, because he dropp'd no sooner.
Fate seem'd to wind him up for fourscore years,
Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more;
Till like a clock worn out with eating time,
The wheels of weary life at last stood still.
Perish that thought! No, never be it said
That Fate itself could awe the soul of Richard.
Hence, babbling dreams! you threaten here in vain!
Conscience, avaunt! Richard's himself again!
Hark! the shrill trumpet sounds to horse! away!
My soul's in arms, and eager for the fray.
The dawn is overcast, the morning lowers,
And heavily in clouds brings on the day,
The great, the important day, big with the fate
Of Cato and of Rome.
The chamber where the good man meets his fate
Is privileg'd beyond the common walk
Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.
Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate,
All but the page prescrib'd, their present state.
And binding Nature fast in fate,
Left free the human will.
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause?
Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod,--
The stamp of fate, and sanction of the god.
Jove lifts the golden balances that show
The fates of mortal men, and things below.
O thou, whose certain eye foresees
The fix'd events of fate's remote decrees.
