A hall in the castle.
So much for this, sir: now shall you see the other; You do remember all the circumstance?
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, Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well, When our deep plots do pall: and that should teach us There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will—