To be, or not to be: that is the question.
Whether it's 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 heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
that flesh is heir to, it's a consummation
devoutly to be wished. 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 undiscovered 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 picth and moment
with this regard their currents turn awry
and lose the name of action.