Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance.
There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
But like of each thing that in season grows.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
So shines a good deed in a weary world.
Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.
Tempt not a desperate man.
The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars, but in ourselves if we are underlings.