The undiscovered country form whose born no traveler returns.

The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.

But that the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country from who bourn no traveler returns, puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have than to fly to others that we know not of?

No, I was not born under a rhyming planet.

Things base and vile, holding no quantity, love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eye, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

We are born to die.