Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting

Hamlet
Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting
That would not let me sleep. Methought I lay
Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly—
And praised be rashness for it: let us know,

There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will—

Our indiscretion sometime serves us well
When our deep plots do pall; and that should learn us
There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will—
Horatio
That is most certain.