Meus Versos Preferidos

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 a wry,

And lose the name of action.

- Shakespeare -