There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.
(V.ii.)
He’s fat and scant of breath.
(V.ii.)
The rest is silence.
(V.ii.)
There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.
(V.ii.)
He’s fat and scant of breath.
(V.ii.)
The rest is silence.
(V.ii.)
