Fate is something you believe in when things are not going well. When they are, you forget it.
Our wills and fates do so contrary run, that our devices still are overthrown; our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
Dreadful is the mysterious power of fate; there is no deliverance from it by wealth or by war, by walled city or dark, seabeaten ships.
I do not believe in that word Fate. It is the refuge of every self-confessed failure.
Fate often puts all the material for happiness and prosperity into a man’s hands just to see how miserable he can make himself with them.
It is a singular fact that many men of action incline to the theory of fatalism, while the greater part of men of thought believe in a divine providence.
Fate is not the ruler, but the servant of Providence.
If you believe in fate, believe in it, at least, for your good.
Whatever limits us we call Fate.
Fate with impartial hand turns out the doom of high and low; her capacious urn is constantly shaking out the names of all mankind.