172
Letters concerning
Th' Oppreſſor's Wrong, the poor Man's contumely,
The Pangs of deſpis'd Love, the Laws 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 Fardles bear
To groan and ſweat under a weary Life,
But that the Dread of ſomething after Death,
Th' 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 ſickled o'er with the pale Caſt of Thought:
And Enterprises of great Weight and Moment
With
