“To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub:
 For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
 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,
 …
 To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
 But that the dread of something after death,
 The undiscovere’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 doth 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.”

William Shakespeare