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.

But, for my own part, it was Greek to me.

Think you I am no stronger than my sex,

Being so father'd and so husbanded?

These things are beyond all use,

And I do fear them.

Cowards die many times before their deaths;

The valiant never taste of death but once.

Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,

It seems to me most strange that men should fear;

Seeing that death, a necessary end,

Will come when it will come.

--Cæs. The ides of March are come.

Sooth. Ay, Cæsar; but not gone. Act iii. Sc. 1.