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 does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue or resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And entrerprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action. 1. Find the line or lines which tell us that Hamlet is thinking about being dead. .
