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172 '' Th' Oppreor's Wrong, the poor Man's contumely, The Pangs of depis'd Love, the Laws Delay, The Inolence of Office, and the Spurns That patient Merit of th' unworthy takes, When he himelf might his Quietus make With a bare Bodkin? Who would thee Fardles bear To groan and weat under a weary Life, But that the Dread of omething after Death, Th' undicover'd Country, from whoe Bourn No Traveller returns, puzzles the Will, And makes us rather bear thoe Ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus Concience does make Cowards of us all; And thus the native Hue of Reolution Is ickled o'er with the pale Cat of Thought: And Enterprises of great Weight and Moment '' With