It was that fatal and perfidious bark,

Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark.

John Milton (1608-1674): Lycidas. Line 100.

It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman,

Which gives the stern'st good-night.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Macbeth. Act ii. Sc. 2.

Italia! O Italia! thou who hast

The fatal gift of beauty.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 42.

Their fatal hands

No second stroke intend.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book ii. Line 712.

Man is his own star; and the soul that can

Render an honest and a perfect man

Commands all light, all influence, all fate.

Nothing to him falls early, or too late.

Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,

Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.

John Fletcher (1576-1625): Upon an "Honest Man's Fortune."

So sweet was ne'er so fatal.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Othello. Act v. Sc. 2.

Farewell!

For in that word, that fatal word,—howe'er

We promise, hope, believe,—there breathes despair.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: The Corsair. Canto i. Stanza 15.