"Enterprises of great pitch and moment"

How do you know when you've found, and then crossed, the line of what you'll tolerate and what is too much?

But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'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 no not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.

For me, I don't seem to find that line until it's so far past that it's barely noticeable. And then everything comes to a frothing red boil and explodes.

"The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks" that Hamlet mourns lay quiet, until suddenly it's all just too much, and I stand, broken and seething; screaming for justice that I only half-believe will ever come.

A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out,

till he leads justice to victory.