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. | 
