By Shakespeare
To
be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether
'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The
slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or
to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And
by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No
more; and by a sleep to say we end
The
heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That
flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly
to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To
sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For
in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When
we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must
give us pause: there's the respect
That
makes calamity of so long life;
For
who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The
oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The
pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The
insolence of office and the spurns
That
patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When
he himself might his quietus make
With
a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To
grunt and sweat under a weary life,
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 know not of?
Thus
conscience does make cowards of us all;
And
thus the native hue of resolution
Is
sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And
enterprises of great pith and moment
With
this regard their currents turn awry,
And
lose the name of action.-Soft you now!
The
fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be
all my sins remember'd.