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When we have shuffled off this mortal coil Must give us pause, There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips, & scorns of time The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay The insolence of office, & the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy take When he himself, might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear To groan & sweat under a weary life; But that the dread of something after death - The undiscovr'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns - puzzles the will; And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others, that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sickly'd o'er with the pale cast of thought; And enterprizes of great pith, and moment With this regard their currents turn away And lose the name of action.---
