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.

More from Julius Caesar

• And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side, come hot from hell, Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice, Cry 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
• Et tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar!
• I said, an elder soldier, not a better: Did I say “better”?
• Lowliness is young ambition's ladder, whereto the climber-upward turns his face; But when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend.
• All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told; Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold.
• All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their enterances, And one man in his time plays many parts.