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 and scorns of time，

Th' oppressor's wrong， the proud man's contumely，

The pangs of despis'd love， the law's delay，

The insolence of office， and the spurns

That patient merit of th' unworthy takes，

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear，

To grunt and sweat under a weary life，

But that the dread of something after death-

The undiscover'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 sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought，

And enterprises of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action.