From whence no passenger ever returned,
The undiscovered country, at whose sight
The happy smile, and the accursed damned.
But for this, the joyful hope of this,
Whol'd beare the scornes of flattery of the world,
Scorned by the right rich, the rich curssed of the poore?
The widow being oppress'd, the orphan wronged,
The taste of hunger, or a tyrants raigne,
And thousand more calamities besides,
To grunte and sweate under the weary life,
When that he may his full quietus make,
With a bare bodkin, who would this indure,
But for a hope of something after death?
Which pushes the brain and doth connfound the sence,
Which makes us rather beare those evilles we have,
Than flie to others that we know not of.
I that, O this conscience makes cowardes of us all.
Lady in thy orizons, be all my sinnes remembered.

33: On closely examining the copy of Montaigne's Essays in the British
Museum, which bears Shakspere's autograph on the title-page, we
found--long after our treatise had been completed--that on the
fly-leaf at the end of the volume is written: _Mors incrta_,
(Written somewhat indistinctly, meaning probably _incerta_.
It might also be an abbreviation of 'incertam horam' [_incr.
ho_.], as contained in the Latin verse on p. 626:--

Incertam frustra, mortales, funeris horam
Quaeritis, et qua sit mors aditura via.)