To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn(e)
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 pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action."


Boy, ole Billy knew how to get it SAID.

I'm glad Rapaire let him live.


A