“But to die, and go we know not where, to lie in cold obstruction and to rot, this sensible warm motion to become a kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit to bathe in fiery floods, or to reside in thrilling region of thick-ribbèd ice, to be imprisoned in the viewless winds and blown with restless violence round about the pendent world; or to be worse than worst of those that lawless and incertain thought imagine howling—’tis too horrible. The weariest and most loathèd worldly life that age, ache, penury, and imprisonment can lay on nature is a paradise to what we fear of death.” – William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure 3.1