It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.

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

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars but in ourselves.

Think you I bear the shears of destiny? Have I commandment on the pulse of life?

Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light.

We shall be winnowed with so rough a wind That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff And good from bad find no partition.