There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white.
What e'er thou art, act well thy part.
The band that seems to tie their friendship together will be the very strangler of their amity.
Weed your better judgments of all opinion that grows rank in them.
Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, And doth it give me such a sight as this?