There is no armor against fate.

The glories of our blood and state, Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate, Death lays his icy hand on kings. Scepter and crown must tumble down, And, in the dust, be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Let those deplore their doom, Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn: But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb, Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn.

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

I think the idea of fate has always been in people's heads. Are we fated to meet the one we marry? How will we die? These are questions that everyone's thought about.

The heart is its own Fate.