Call no man happy before he dies, he is at best but fortunate.
In showbiz, so much success and fame comes your way and then it passes on to someone else.
Family always gonna be there. The material things, they come and go.
Fortune, like a coy mistress, loves to yield her favors, though she makes us wrest them from her.
One win, and you're on top of the world. Lose in the first round of the next tournament: you're back to reality.
Success is an absurd, erratic thing. She arrives when one least expects her and after she has come may depart again almost because of a whim.
I had a very erratic career. I got very famous for a minute and then it just all went away, you know?
Worldly fame is but a breath of wind that blows now this way, and now that, and changes name as it changes direction.
Fickle Fortune reigns, and, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.
Luck in all its moods had to be loved and not feared. Bond saw luck as a woman, to be softly wooed or brutally ravaged, never pandered to or pursued.
Fortune, delighting in her cruel task, and playing her wanton game untiringly, is ever shifting her uncertain favours.
Beneath the sun's rays our shadow is our comrade; When clouds obscure the sun our shadow flees. So Fortune's smiles the fickle crowd pursues, But swift is gone whenever she veils her face.
